


Nimulot Encounters: Fire and Water

by NessieCullen9



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: AU, F/M, Nimue meets Lancelot, Nimue meets Weeping Monk, Nimulot - Freeform, Weeping Monk finds Nimue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26338309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NessieCullen9/pseuds/NessieCullen9
Summary: The Weeping Monk finds Nimue in Numos, and their first encounter becomes one of many as they are unexpectedly bound together. Also posted on FFN, 2020.
Relationships: Nimue & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 82





	1. Fire and Water

Arthur's hands covered Nimue's eyes from behind, so he was no help at all when she stepped on wet rocks he couldn't see in front of her.

"Some guide you are," she laughed as he helped her off the ground, blushing even as he laughed with her. Looking around, Nimue realized Arthur had found the secret hot springs of Numos. "A terrible guide, but a decent scout it seems."

"Well, guiding a lady through the dark is like leading her in a dance," Arthur argued playfully. "The dance only works if the lady trusts the leader and follows him."

"A bard, a knight, a mercenary, a thief, and now a dance instructor?" Nimue smiled, twirling quite gracefully as she stepped around Arthur, moving closer to the water. "Has no one ever told you a practitioner of all trades is a master of none?"

"I'm a scout as well now," Arthur said, leaping up onto one of the large rocks by the natural pools. "You said so yourself." Nimue rolled her eyes, already regretting that one. This was all playful banter, but Arthur was inclined to think highly of himself even when he spoke ill of himself.

"Let me know when you find one direction that suits you, Arthur."

Frowning slightly at the change in Nimue's tone, Arthur quickly removed his shirt, grinning broadly when Nimue turned away, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. Without hesitation, he discarded the rest of his clothing and sank into the largest pool. "That's why you brought me here, is it?" Nimue asked, turning to face him again.

"I didn't think you'd be averse to it," Arthur spoke plainly. Nimue gaped at him.

"This is more of the bard, then," she said, all traces of levity gone. "You really think you're the most devastating thing ever." Arthur blinked, confused, taking a moment to realize how his words had been misinterpreted.

"Oh, no, that's not what I meant," he said quickly. "I don't say that because you're a girl, but because you're fey. You're all so in touch with nature, wild and free compared to manblood like me, right?"

"You've heard tales of other clans," Nimue said, hoping Arthur missed the longing in her voice, hoping her eyes didn't give her away. "Sky Folk aren't just the most human in appearance. I'm the wildest by far, but still very much my mother's daughter, and she was the High Priestess."

"Isn't it enough that you're risking your life trying to fulfill her last wish?" Arthur asked. "You're trying to get the sword to Merlin. You're giving her that. Don't you think you've earned a little break? A little fun?"

"Is that what you tell yourself when you think of your father?" Nimue challenged. "Are you not so determined to fulfill his dying wish? You stole the sword and left me at Yvoire Abbey so you could go play knight in Grammaire." For a long moment, Nimue and Arthur just glared at each other, each aware that they'd overstepped but neither willing to withdraw. As they both calmed, Arthur moved backward in the water, giving Nimue plenty of room.

"C'mon," he said gently, "get in or we've come up here for nothing." Nimue still hesitated. "I've seen a naked woman before," Arthur pressed, flashing his most charming smile.

"We're all very impressed," Nimue sighed, sardonic but submitting nonetheless. She twirled her finger, insisting he turn around. Arthur laughed but he turned his back, hoisting himself up on the far edge a little, happy to show off his body though she was reluctant to show hers. He flexed a little when he heard clothing falling, pleasantly surprised that she really was going to join him.

Nimue couldn't resist the urge to feel the scars as she undressed. Arthur had glimpsed them briefly before, but she'd refused to talk about them. He'd barely seen them through the small hole torn in her clothing. Dark as it had been, it might have escaped his notice that they were almost black in color. They only had a subtle red sparkle to them in the light, and that was only visible up close. With another heavy sigh, Nimue slipped into the water, sinking until the water reached her neck and keeping her back to the wall. Arthur turned around and smiled warmly.

"You don't have to hide them," he said. "Your scars."

"Back home, I did have to hide them," Nimue said flatly, hoping Arthur would drop the subject, knowing he wouldn't.

"Why?" Arthur asked, his clear confusion almost insulting. "I have scars too, just look—"

"Let's not take this as another opportunity to show me your body, Arthur," Nimue bit out. "I assure you my self-consciousness isn't rooted in vanity. I don't mind scars in general. I quite like them; I'd even say I fancy men with scars. They're proof of what one has survived, but what I survived ruined my life. Since I was five summers old, I've been treated like a monster, not just by these Red Paladins, but by my own kind. They called me witch, they called me demon, half of them going out of their way to avoid me while the other half picked fights and tried to hurt me. My own father—!" but Nimue couldn't say it. Trying to hide the tears welling up in her eyes, she turned away from Arthur. Of course, that meant her scars were on full display.

Arthur weighed his options. He wanted to know what she was going to say about her father, but she clearly didn't want to talk about it. Seeing her scars clearly for the first time, it was quite obvious that what she was saying was true: her scars were certainly not normal. "They look like embers," he said softly. He couldn't help it. He'd never seen anything like them. "They look like..." He moved a little closer. "Are they claw marks?! What kind of animal...? Where is that light coming from? It truly looks like embers are trapped under the skin..." The second Arthur's fingertips touched her scars, Nimue whipped around. Arthur's fingers barely grazed the top of her breast as he swiftly withdrew them, but Nimue didn't seem to notice.

"They said I was cursed," She fumed. "They said I was marked by Dark Gods, that the demon that came for me would return."

"D-Demon?!" Arthur sputtered.

"It came to me as a bear," Nimue confessed. "It lured me out of the village when I was five summers and it attacked me. I heard Mother's voice in my head; she knew I was in danger, but she knew she wouldn't reach me in time. 'Call to the Hidden,' she said. My magic saved me that night. I killed the bear and Mother found me and brought me home. I fainted at some point, but I was awake when they were talking. My eyes were closed, and I felt sick, and the gashes hurt terribly, but I heard them! They told her to let me die, afraid that whatever wanted me would come back for me. Even my father... he did nothing, and a few summers later he left us."

"Nimue..." Arthur had no idea what to say, so he fell back on old habits. "I'm sorry... but, hey, when it comes to comparing scar stories you know you'll always come out on top, eh?" Nimue swept her arm across the surface of the steaming water, soaking Arthur with a wave. Arthur grinned. "Well, now you've declared war."

Though Nimue had splashed Arthur to avoid slapping him, she was quickly drawn into the water fight, and she soon found herself laughing along as they flung water everywhere. "Stop! Stop!" She called when she realized she would soon be exposed. Too much water had been cast out of the pool. She sank lower in the water, but Arthur moved closer. Nimue stared in disbelief. Each time she thought they had a shot at being friends, he did something too bold. She wasn't sure how much longer she could playfully dissuade him. "How many times do I have to hit you to convince you I don't want you to kiss me?"

"Once, Nimue?" Arthur asked in earnest, his eyes on her lips. "Aren't you curious? We've come this far together. You don't need to be nervous. You can trust me." Arthur scrambled backward when he saw the green vines appearing on Nimue's cheeks. He looked around at all the nearby trees and shrubs, expecting to be struck by a branch or a vine at any moment, but the earth was still.

'But you saw me looking at you,' Nimue heard the voices from the past as if they were spoken directly into her ear. She saw him. She remembered his friend and his betrothed were hidden in the trees. 'Witch.' Nimue felt around blindly for her clothes. She wanted to get out, but she didn't want Arthur to see her body as she did so. She heard the whispers of the Hidden. She asked for a wall, a wall to block her from Arthur's view. She didn't want to hurt him, but she couldn't be so exposed around him. She felt her magic stirring, felt a shift, heard splashing and whirling... Somehow, she'd connected with the water instead of the earth. The water from all the hot springs had come together, rising between her and Arthur like a tidal wave frozen in time. Nimue clambered out of the empty pool and dressed faster than she ever had before. Once she was clothed, the wall of water parted, all the water pouring back into the hot springs.

"Morgana said your magic is earth-based," Arthur murmured, climbing out of the large pool and quickly dressing, his hands shaking.

"It is," Nimue said flatly, coldly, still hurt and shaken. "I've never wielded water before." Nimue stood there, lost in thought. Arthur stared for a long moment, working up the courage to speak again, but when he opened his mouth, Nimue cut him off. "Congratulations. Now you can claim this too. Thanks to you, the Wolf-Blood Witch discovered power she didn't know she had." It was a dismissal and Arthur knew it. He left, disappearing into the dark tunnels of Numos without another word.

Nimue sat on one of the large rocks by the pool she'd just vacated, feeling utterly spent. Then she felt it. She wasn't alone. She tried to look around subtly, keeping her posture relaxed so her stalker wouldn't know she was aware of them. The tunnels weren't an option; they were dark and expansive, and she'd allowed Arthur to lead her through them blindly. Her eyes scanned the surrounding forest; she could try to make her way back to the main entrance, but she would lead any pursuers the same way, endangering all the other fey refugees inside. Turning back to the tunnels, she froze. The Weeping Monk stood blocking the path into the tunnels. Haunting images immediately came to mind. Nimue remembered the chilling sight of him riding into her burning village on a great black horse, then there was that moment in Yvoire Abbey... he'd been so close she was certain he had her then. He had yet to reach for his weapons, but his very presence cut the atmosphere like a fine blade—once he let you see him, there was no ignoring him. A chill ran down her spine and she felt her magic stirring.

"Don't," The Weeping Monk's voice was a little higher than she'd expected, but still low and rough, the soft raspiness strangely attractive and all too distracting. "You were so forthcoming with your... friend... I hoped you would spare me the trouble of forcibly extracting information from you." The weeping warrior spoke of torture so casually; Nimue found it both infuriating and calming. She also noticed the whispers of the Hidden had abruptly quieted at his command.

"You heard that?" She made herself speak. "How long have you been here?"

"I was here when Arthur first stumbled across this place." Nimue felt a strange jolt when the Monk said Arthur's name. "I thought I would question him when he came back, but then he returned with you."

"And you recognized me?" Nimue asked. Even she wasn't sure if she was genuinely curious or simply stalling. "I saw you kneeling before Carden while my village burned around you, but you didn't see me. I stood an arms-length from you in Yvoire Abbey, but you didn't catch me then."

"You dragged that boy away from Father Carden and me. I admit I didn't get a good look at you, but I saw you. Your eyes are very distinctive."

"So are yours." Nimue wasn't sure what made her say that. The Monk's eyes were mostly concealed by his hood, but she was finally close enough to him to really see the distinctive markings—some kind of war paint perhaps—and she could tell his eyes were intensely blue, much like hers. Nimue started slightly when the Monk took a step closer to her.

"You did slip through my fingers at Yvoire Abbey, but I was one step behind you from that moment on, as you know all too well. You left quite a message for me at the Red Lake—"

"That wasn't about you. I happened across dead fey and human smugglers, friends of mine, dead on the road, then I found my sword in their wagon. I wasn't sending a message, I was answering one!" Before Nimue could blink, the Weeping Monk's sword was pressed against her neck, the cold steel warning her back. It took Nimue a moment to realize she had risen from her seated position while speaking. She stood before the weeping warrior, and at such close range he towered over her.

"I stopped that wagon, so you were in fact responding to my actions with your own," the Monk's voice was threatening, but there was an undercurrent Nimue couldn't place. The grey warrior's face was cool and composed, but there was a light in his eyes, a fire that wasn't fueled purely by hatred. So why did it burn? "Where is your sword now?"

"Out of your reach."

"Learned your lesson after your friend stole it?"

"From what I've heard about you, it would do me no good if I did have it now. It's powerful, but I'm no swordsman."

"Neither is Merlin." Nimue's breath caught. The Monk really had heard her whole conversation with Arthur. His blade was still against her neck, and he applied a little more pressure, turning his weapon slightly so the flat side of it pressed her back. Nimue stepped backward slowly and a faint smile touched the Monk's lips. Nimue backed into the stone she'd just risen from. No. She would not sit back down at his command."Why Merlin?" The Monk pressed. "What would he do with the Devil's Tooth?"

"I don't know," Nimue answered honestly. "You heard me, heard us—it was my mother's dying wish that I bring it to him."

"How did your mother come to possess it?"

"I don't know. I didn't know it was in our village until you came. I didn't even realize it was the Sword of Power until Yvoire Abbey—I followed Carden when I heard him talking about it, telling the others he recognized the mark it left."

"You were deliberately spying?" There was a distinct change in the Monk's tone. He was genuinely surprised. "You weren't in that room when they entered?"

"I'm glad I did. I went back for those maps and papers and burned them." Hoping to take her enemy by surprise again, Nimue lunged for him. She felt the sting of his blade as it left a shallow mark on her neck, but as she closed the distance between herself and the Monk, she grabbed his arm and forced it upward, forcing the sword up over her head. She pulled and twisted on the spot, hoping to throw him into the water, but the Monk was too quick for her, dropping her to the ground with a sweeping kick. Nimue deliberately rolled back into the water herself, moving into the middle of the largest pool. The Weeping Monk stared down at her. Since she couldn't outrun him, returning to the water was a smart move. She was trapped but his sword would not reach her unless he joined her.

"Last chance to walk away," she said with all the confidence she could muster. The Monk smiled again, watching her closely but saying nothing. The second he saw the green vines reappearing on her face and neck, he drew his dagger and threw it. A wall of water shot up again, not stopping the dagger, but striking it, spinning it so it bounced off Nimue's chest, cutting her but not piercing her. The attack did break her focus. Roots that had begun reaching for the Monk stopped moving and the water settled back into the pool. Nimue dove underwater to seize the dagger, but she stood still when she resurfaced. She couldn't get close enough to attack without making herself vulnerable, and she certainly wasn't going to throw the only weapon she had. The Monk stood calmly by the pool's edge, having reached the same conclusion. They stared at each other for a long moment.

"If you try that again, I will kill you," The Weeping Monk said at last. "I may not be as eager to join you as some, but I will if I must." Nimue didn't miss the way the Monks's eyes swept over her body. There wasn't much to see, but the water made her clothing cling to the curves of her breasts. Nimue tried to hide her blush when it occurred to her that the Monk had not only heard her conversation with Arthur, but he'd seen everything as well; it was possible he'd seen more than Arthur had. Nimue wondered if 'Weeping Monk' was just an intimidating name. In his eyes, she saw not a monk, but a man, and if she could not fight him, perhaps she could distract him.

"What did you make of them?" She asked, her voice low and seductive, or so she hoped. "My scars. Do you think they look like embers too?

"You assume I was looking."

"I'm fairly certain you were," Nimue countered. "Not like Arthur was. You might have looked away when I was fully exposed—I thank you, if that's true—but you surely looked when I was in the water. I was attacked by a demon. You're a warrior of the Church, are you not? You were merely curious." Nimue did not know it was in her to be so bold, but she turned her back to the Monk, tugging her sleeve down a little to reveal more of her scarred skin. She hid them from everyone else, but she felt no need to hide them from him. He already thought the worst of her, didn't he? There was a long silence, but Nimue didn't move. If her attempts to distract the Monk failed, she stood no chance against him.

"This venture has certainly been...informative." The Monk's dangerously luring voice lanced through her again, soft as it was. Nimue could only hope he missed her shudder. "I've killed many demons, but I've never seen such marks." Nimue bristled, whirling to face the Monk again.

"You've killed feykind," Nimue snapped at him. "We are not demons. I killed a real demon as a mere child. The marks on my back are proof I have done what you have not. The Weeping Monk, outdone by the Wolf-Blood Witch." How easily she'd forgotten her intent to distract him. The Monk's eyes flashed and he jumped into the water. Nimue brought his dagger up, but he caught her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back, forcing her to drop the dagger and pushing her up against the far edge of the pool. He trapped her there there with his body and his blade, his sword arm wrapping around her while his body pressed against her back. His sword came to rest close to her throat again, and his breath warmed the back of her neck.

"Then I'll slay the demon slayer," he breathed in her ear. "If I do what the demon could not, then I am stronger than the demon."

"That's what everyone wanted to do," Nimue tried to sound unruffled, but her voice shook. "When my mother refused to give the demon what it wanted, she proved she was stronger than the demon. She didn't fear it."

The Weeping Monk made no reply. He made no move to strike, nor did he move away. Nimue could hear him breathing, she could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back, but she waited. She jumped slightly, startled when his callused fingertips tentatively touched her exposed shoulder, feeling the scars there. She had been naked in the water with Arthur, but this felt so much more intimate, regardless of the blade before her.

"Embers..." The Monk seemed naturally soft-spoken, but that word had been nearly inaudible, charged... The word meant something more to him, somehow.

The Monk's stance behind her had relaxed slightly. Remembering her objective, she shifted backward. 'Distracting, not fighting,' she reminded herself as she pressed her body further into his. She heard his sharp intake of breath and he immediately broke contact with her skin. Before he moved his sword, she twisted around so she faced him. Their faces inches apart, Nimue could see every curve of the markings on his face, the vibrant blue of his eyes a striking contrast. Seeing that same fire in the blue, Nimue was distracted too. She glanced at his lips before she could stop herself, looking up in time to see his eyes on her lips as well, if only for a moment. His free hand wrapped around her throat and pushed her back.

"Do not tempt me, witch," he warned, "for I would sooner be tempted to strike you down."

"But you haven't," Nimue challenged, "If you're so firm in your belief that I cannot tempt you, speak my name. I know you heard it."

"Those wishing to summon demons speak their names."

"If you're afraid to speak my name, you would certainly cower before the demon I killed."

The Monk's grip tightened, not enough to steal her breath entirely, but enough to make her struggle, enough to silence her. Still, leaning in closer, almost touching her lips with his, he said, "I fear no demon... Nimue."


	2. Scent of Magic

The fire in his eyes, his breath mingling with hers, the steam rising around them, dew on their skin... the temptation was already there... When Nimue heard the laughter of children in the tunnel, instinct told her to protect her enemy. The hand on her throat had loosened; the Monk had turned toward the sound. Taking his strong jaw in her hand she pulled him back to her, pressing her lips to his while her other hand pulled down his hood. The Weeping Monk responded immediately, dropping his sword in the water and pulling her closer. One of his hands went to rip the tie out of his hair while his other arm wrapped around her waist. He backed up, pulling Nimue with him until his back hit the opposite wall, hiding his clothing from view entirely. Nimue threw her arms around his shoulders, casually combing his hair with her fingers, making sure the cross on his head was covered. The Monk made it clear he appreciated her attention to detail, capturing her full lower lip between his wide, lightly chapped lips. The soft moan that might have escaped Nimue was drowned out by shrieks of the children spotting them. Their surprise quickly turned to mirth and they were giggling again, the sound amplified, echoing through the tunnels as they ran back the way they came. Listening carefully for anyone else approaching, Nimue kept her arms around the Monk, moving her lips gently over his. His lips returned her soft caress, his callused fingertips returning to her exposed shoulder, tracing her scars. Slowly, they stilled. Slowly, they parted. No one else was coming. The tension was thick and the silence was loud. They stared at each other.

“So...” Nimue finally found her voice. “Shall we call this one a draw? You go on your way, I go on mine?” The Weeping Monk said nothing for a moment. His eyes flickered back down to her lips, then he met her gaze again. Intensely blue. Questioning. Searching.

“Draw,” he said softly, the subtle rasp positively arresting. Drawing a breath, he dropped underwater, fetching his discarded weapons. When he resurfaced, Nimue was right where he left her. She hadn’t moved an inch, but she averted her eyes to keep herself from staring. Why had she done that? Why had she kissed him? She heard the Monk lifting himself out of the water, but the next thing he said to her fell on deaf ears. She blinked, realizing after a moment that he was still trying to get her attention. “Nimue?” He was calling her name.

“Sorry, what?” Nimue muttered, turning to see the Weeping Monk’s extended hand. What was happening? Even as Nimue’s mind reeled, she took her enemy’s hand, accepting his help. He pulled her out of the water and steadied her as she found her feet. “Thank you,” she murmured. Thank you for the hand up? Thank you for not killing me? Nimue was at a loss.

“Thank you,” the Monk said softly, his expression ambivalent. Another pregnant pause, then he said, “I’m certain we’ll meet again. Until then, Nimue.” The Monk turned to leave, walking uphill toward the trees. 

“What’s your name?” Nimue called out to him before she could stop herself. The Monk stared at her. “If I promise I won’t tell anyone?” She pressed. The Monk considered her offer. He started to leave. He started to walk away without answering her, but he stopped only three steps further from the fey witch. “If you promise,” he conceded.

“I promise,” Nimue gasped. She’d been holding her breath. The moment felt so surreal, so fragile... 

“Lancelot,” the Monk said softly. “A long time ago, my name was Lancelot... but that time is long past and that boy long dead.”

“I won’t tell,” Nimue promised again. The Weeping Monk nodded and took off at a run, certain he’d fallen under some spell.

An hour later, a Snake Clan couple found Nimue drying off in the sun. She confessed she had no idea how to make her way back through the tunnels. They knew the little girl Nimue had saved at the Red Lake, so they gladly escorted her back, showering her with praise. She was their hero. Their hero... Nimue’s stomach twisted, guilt making her ill. If they knew she’d kissed the Weeping Monk...

Morgana found her just before nightfall.

“Yeva sends word: Merlin replied to your letter. Apparently, it arrived just in time to stop his public execution. His relationship with Uther Pendragon is obviously strained, so you can use that to your advantage. When you speak with him tomorrow, you have to hold your ground. You really do hold all the cards now. I think Yeva may actually enjoy helping you, knowing how strongly she feels about Merlin.”

“Good,” Nimue said, genuinely relieved. “She certainly wasn’t happy to see me the first time. She insisted I didn’t smell like Sky Folk, and she said my father was right to fear my blood, whatever that means.” Though Nimue was wary of facing the old Moon Wing again, her thoughts were elsewhere... with Lancelot.

“Are you alright?” Morgana asked her, noticing her preoccupation.

“Fine,” Nimue said brightly.

“No changes I should know about?” Morgana pressed. “No new powers or anything?” Nimue flushed, not in embarrassment, but in anger.

“I knew he would run and tell everyone.”

“Now hold on,” Morgana said, “he didn’t tell everyone, he just told me. He said he really mucked things up with you and he wasn’t sure you’d speak to him again without my help. You know how I feel about my brother. I know he’s a flirtatious, covetous idiot with a flair for the dramatic, and that’s an awful combination. It gets him into a lot of trouble. Nothing you say will surprise me, so just tell me what he’s done this time. He only told me he pissed you off enough to make you conjure up a wall of water, or something like that.”

“You basically said it,” Nimue sighed. “Flirtatious and covetous. I may have flirted a bit when he and I first met, but Pym was with me and the three of us were just having a bit of fun. Even after sharing a flask of bad wine, I stopped him when he tried to kiss me... I headbutted him, actually.” Morgana laughed. “I was hesitant to even get in the water with him. I suppose I could have kept my clothes on, but I thought he understood I only wanted to be friends. He didn’t do anything, really. He asked for a kiss, and he was so close... I was caught off guard and I panicked. I had no idea I could wield water, but when I asked the Hidden for a wall to cover me while I dressed, the water formed a wall.” Morgana smiled understandingly and shook her head.

“He had it coming then. Let him fret about it for a day or two. Do you think you could wield water again?”

“That’s why I stayed out there so long,” Nimue lied. “Well, that and I had to wait for someone else to come through the caves, but that’s why I came back with my clothes wet. I can’t really control my magic, I told you as much—it’s more like I’m supplying the energy things need to move about on their own. I did get one more wall of water up, but I had to get in the water to do it, and I slipped and cut myself on the rocks when the pools emptied.” Nimue felt terrible lying to Morgana, but her human friend could be quite ruthless; telling Morgana about her encounter with the Weeping Monk was not an option. 

There was a joining the next day. Nimue soaked in the joyous energy of the event. It was nice to forget about swords and paladins and bloodshed for a while... even if she couldn’t forget the Weeping Monk. It was ridiculous, really. He was Father Carden’s right hand, a fey-killer, her enemy. Seeng a familiar face lifted Nimue’s spirits and shook her from her reverie.

“Squirrel!”

“Nimue!”

Nimue raced over to her little friend, nearly falling into him as she knelt down to his height, hugging him with all her strength. He was alive!

“The Green Knight saved me,” Squirrel told her, and Nimue stood as the fey warrior in the entryway removed his ornate helm, setting it aside.

“Gawain?” The knight stared at her for a moment, recognition flashing in his eyes while his smile lit up his face.

“Nimue!” Nimue ran to her old friend and launched herself into his arms. She had no siblings, but she felt like she was welcoming both of her brothers home. 

“Merlin?” Her older brother wasted no time, immediately stepping into the roll of her protector. “Nimue, this is the sword of our people. It is a heavy burden to bear, a burden I will take upon myself if you wish to be free of it, but we cannot give such a weapon away. You know I loved Lenore like my own mother, but why would she ask you to give it to Merlin?”

“I don’t know, but it was her dying wish. She could have said anything, but this is what she asked of me...” Nimue’s epiphany made her cheeks flush with embarrassment, as she felt rather witless. “She knew him. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner—it’s the only answer that makes sense. She knew him, and she trusts him even now. That’s all that makes sense. That’s all I can believe.” 

“You don’t smell like Sky Folk,” Yeva greeted Nimue as she had when they first met, scowling at her and circling her once. “You smell of other clans.” That was new. 

“Numos is overcrowded with fey refugees from many clans,” Nimue said politely. Yeva glared, but the old Moon Wing said nothing more on the subject. Dragging Nimue to the center of her nest-hut, she picked up a bowl full of salt, herbs, and small stones. Nimue sat down and Yeva circled her, chanting softly. 

“Visions will come,” she warned. “Let them come. They will ferry you to the space between.”

Nimue’s eyes fell closed. Voices whispered to her and visions swam before her. 

“It’s in your blood, child. Ask your mother the reason.”

Of course... It was quite literally in her blood, wasn’t it? No Sky Folk had ever wielded such power, and she knew her power was not limited to one element. Why did she have such power? How did her mother know Merlin? Nimue opened her eyes and there the truth stood before her. “You’re my father.”

The Wolf-Blood Witch was quite young, and quite beautiful. Merlin only had a moment to wonder how this fey girl got caught up in such a dangerous game. As soon as she opened her eyes, she claimed he was her father. Finally taking in the room, he felt a chill. Dewdenn. Lenore. If the girl’s claim was true, she’d been conceived in this very room. “You’re the daughter of Lenore?”

“Yes.”

“She gave you the sword?” 

“Yes. It was her dying wish that I bring the sword to you. I didn’t understand... She never told me about you. The man I believed to be my father, he knew the truth. As my power grew, our family fell apart. He must have known all along that I wasn’t his.”

“Well, I’m widely regarded as a traitor to my kind, but I am fey,” Merlin said simply. “My time with Lenore left a trace.”

“A trace?” Nimue asked, confused.

“Yes, a trace—she left a trace on me, and it does go both ways.” Nimue said nothing, her bewilderment quite plain. Merlin shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the various rings on his fingers. “Sky Folk,” he grumbled at last. “Isolated, repressed, and judgmental. You must have been miserable. I am truly sorry... I’m sorry, dear, what name were you given?”

“Nimue.”

“A beautiful name,” Merlin said, smiling warmly. “Nimue, you were born into a clan with more human traditions than any other clan. Betrothals? Human tradition. Yes, it’s a human tradition every fey clan has come to embrace, but the trace is nature’s betrothal—a mating ritual of sorts. Mating is animal and mating is fey. Sky Folk are taught to resist their baser instincts, and in doing so they cut off one of their extra senses entirely. All fey are born with the ability to detect essential compatibility. One touch, and we can identify potential enemies, potential friends, and potential mates. When we touch a potential mate, our instincts scream at us to make more intimate contact. Why is ‘true love’s kiss’ so often referenced in fairytales? Because of the trace. When two fey kiss, if their compatibility is strong, if ‘happily ever after’ is a possibility, their scents change. They each absorb the scent of their potential mate. It’s very subtle. Only fey from certain clans can actually smell the difference, but many can sense the change.” Merlin walked closer to Nimue, giving her a bracing look. “I know this is a lot to take in, but I can feel our connection fading, so... As your father, I must warn you there is a trace on you. I didn’t know there were any Ash Folk left in these lands, but you found one of them, or perhaps I should say he found you; the senses of the Ash Folk are unparalleled. He was likely drawn to you from the moment he caught your scent.”


	3. Flint to the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Caileach and the Widow are NOT part of this story. No spider-swallowing Morgana, no Widow telling Merlin Nimue’s name was given (she helped Merlin steal the fey fire, but that’s it).

“You killed innocents! You’re steeped in blood!”

“How many lives have you taken since you picked up that sword?”

“They were murderers. They slaughtered men, women, and children! They burned our villages!”

“You see? You believe your cause is just. I too believed my cause was just. Your thirst for justice, for revenge, you will go the same way I did—that sword will drive you to act on your darkest impulses, and you will become what I became, because you’re my kin!”

“I wish to the Gods I was not!”

“But you are!”

Nimue’s face-to-face meeting with Merlin was nothing short of traumatic. Seeing what he’d seen, what he’d become... Merlin wanted to destroy the sword, and she was tempted... the way the sword whispered to her... She thought of Lancelot, not the Weeping Monk, but Lancelot. When she remembered their kiss, when she lied to her friends about meeting him, she told herself he was once an innocent fey boy named Lancelot. She had no idea how Lancelot became the Weeping Monk, but she had to believe what was done could be undone. Given this new information, she wondered if she had it all wrong. Were they so compatible because she was turning into a merciless killer too?

“Do you want to talk about it?” Merlin offered. “The trace? That’s where your mind has gone.”

“No, I’d rather not. Had I known...” Nimue shook her head.

“Ah, I see,” Merlin said, laughing softly. It was a cold, mocking laugh. Nimue looked up at him, bemused. “You were caught up in the moment, but you aren’t cut out for romance. It’s nothing to be ashamed of; I told Lenore I could not be tied down, trace or no trace. She could have become a Shadow Lord. Had she been more ambitious—”

“Enough! Speak ill of my mother again and you will see what the paladins fear, old man.”  
Vines erupted from the ground and Merlin smiled. Seeing his expression, Nimue immediately calmed and the vines stilled. 

“Anger is your flint to the fire, but there are safer ways to draw it out.”

“Fear draws it out too, and not just vines and roots. The day before I contacted you, I wielded water for the first time. Strangely, the water was easier to control, and it wasn’t aggressive—it was purely defensive magic.”

“Fear precedes anger. When given a moment to process fear without pressure, you can shut it down and regain control. Like any cornered animal, your fear will turn to rage if there is no other way out. To master your power, you must learn to draw on it when you are not in immediate danger. When you trust your own abilities, you will not be so easily frightened, so you will not be so easily angered. Come, let me show you.” Merlin led Nimue through the ruins to a brittle, dead apple tree.

“See if you can revive this apple tree,” Merlin instructed. “Calm yourself, ground yourself, and surrender your intention to the Hidden.”

“I can’t control it—”

“Try. Call to the Hidden, surrender your intention, and search for a source of power within. It might be a word, a scent, a memory. You’ll know it when you feel it. Try.”

Nimue did as she was instructed. She imagined roots linking her feet to the earth, energy surging upward through her and then circling back down in a constant flow of give and take. She heard the whispers of the Hidden and she pictured a healthy, fully-matured apple tree. ‘Help me create this. I will this to be.’ She felt her magic stirring, but it wasn’t quite enough. The Hidden made their own request; they agreed to let her manipulate the world around her, but she had to provide the appropriate energy. ‘Not anger,’ She told herself. ‘Not fear...’ Nimue let her mind wander and she thought of her lethal mate. ‘No, not lethal. Not sharpened and hardened by hateful paladins. The boy he was.’ Nimue knew little of the Ash Folk, but she pictured a boy like Squirrel, dark tear-like markings under his eyes, maybe even a weapon in his hand, but a playful twinkle in his eyes. ‘The fire in the blue...’ She could almost hear him talking, laughing... She heard rustling and snapping and she knew she’d found the right energy source. She could feel her magic connecting to the Hidden, to the earth, and growing outward. Little Lancelot’s laughter did not call forth quick and violent magic; like a branch of the apple tree, her magic stretched and unfurled, offering sustenance, offering life... Nimue opened her eyes and marveled at the apple tree before her, branches strong and heavy with fruit.

“I thought of him,” Nimue admitted, noting her father’s soft smile. Merlin’s eyes met hers, brows lifting inquiringly. Nimue hesitated, but there was a residual buoyancy in her, a feeling of levity that made her feel safe. “The—“

“Nimue!”

Nimue and Merlin turned to see Morgana behind them.

“Pendragon soldiers,” She warned Nimue. “They’ve come for you.” Nimue rounded on Merlin, all traces of levity gone.

“You betrayed me,” she accused. Looking at Merlin, she bit her lip to keep it from trembling. She was genuinely hurt. She’d only just met him, her birth father, but something about what she’d just done with the apple tree—that gentle magic had lowered her defenses. She knew better. Witch. Demon. Marked by Dark gods. Her magic was violent because her tormenters were violent. Though the sword was in its sheath on her back, she could almost feel the ornate pommel in her hand... steel had fallen into her hands for a reason.

“No. I had no idea I was followed—“

“What was it my mother said to you? Let this be the last time I see your face.”

Nimue, Morgana, and Kaze rode as swiftly as their horses would carry them. Most of the Pendragon soldiers they’d seen stayed behind with Merlin, few giving chase. Nimue had to wonder if she really had been their target. She wondered if she had been too harsh, but she dismissed the thought when she remembered those soldiers feared Merlin’s power. Only she knew his secret: Merlin has lost his magic when her mother took the sword. Slowing, but continuing their journey back toward Numos, they passed through a field flanked by towering cliffs; the horses paused, wary of the passage, but their riders urged them on.

“Brother’s Blood,” Kaze called it, and she told Nimue and Morgana of the army slaughtered by truly terrifying magic. Nimue felt an odd chill as she considered the maddening fog, her own magic stirring at the thought. She imagined turning the Red Paladins on each other. She could almost see them cutting each other down. She could see their red robes so clearly... too clearly... Nimue gasped.

“Stop,” she told her companions. “I can’t...” What was happening? Her visions and dreams were normally so arresting, but she wasn’t shaking, she wasn’t fainting... only her sight had been stolen. “Vision,” she whispered when she heard Morgana and Kaze moving closer. “Not a normal vision... I’m... My eyes are elsewhere. Wait...” One of the women laid a bracing hand on her arm.

“What can you see?” Kaze prompted.

“Red Paladins. Armed, but waiting... they’re hidden behind trees, watching...” Nimue tried to look around, but when she tried to look to the right, her gaze snapped to something on her left. A child? Nimue’s stomach lurched. “Feykind. They’re watching a faun child and her family.”

“When? Where?” Morgana spoke urgently.

“Now, I think,” Nimue answered. “It feels like it’s happening now. I... This has never happened before, but I think I’m seeing through someone else’s eyes. I can only see what they—the mill!” Nimue exclaimed as her eyes fell on the distinctive structure in the field of grain. “A dozen or so fey, faun and tusk, adults and children—they haven’t noticed the paladins, and they’re outnumbered!”

“Arthur meant to go guard the mill with the Green Knight,” Morgana interjected. “It’s got to be an ambush!”

“Nimue, you have to reclaim your sight,” Kaze said with calm authority. Releasing Nimue’s arm, she grabbed the Sky girl’s reins, guiding her horse forward. Nimue still couldn’t see, but she balanced herself in the saddle and kicked, urging her horse into a trot. 

‘Thank you. Enough.’ Nimue thanked the Hidden for the warning and tried to break free, but nothing changed. Visions from the Hidden took possession of her entire being; this was something else entirely. The sword on her back was silent and cold. ‘Where is this coming from?!’ Something in her peripheral vision caught her attention and Nimue stiffened, nearly sliding out of her saddle before frantically righting herself. A grey hood. She could see the hem of a grey hood. The moment she made the connection, her own sight was restored. “I’m back,” she told Morgana and Kaze, reclaiming her reins from the latter. “The Weeping Monk is there.” 

The Weeping Monk scanned the woods, his hand on his blade. Had he heard her voice? No. No, he hadn’t, but he could sense her as clearly as if she stood before him. The Monk tried to dismiss his feelings. He told himself her lingering scent was to blame. From the moment her lips touched his, he’d been bewitched. No. No, it was the moment he touched her scars... “Embers,” he whispered before he could stop himself. Glancing at his red brothers, he breathed a sigh of relief, as none stood close enough to hear his murmuring. He would not linger over what was not to be. 

Hearing approaching horses, the Monk signaled his brothers and walked into the wood. This was not the witch, but the knight approaching, and with him... Arthur. The Weeping Monk let the Green Knight pass him by; the fey warrior was walking right into a trap. The Monk raised his bow and took aim at Arthur. The thief. The incorrigible suitor. He let the arrow fly.

Nimue saw the smoke before she saw the mill. Since she regained her vision, she, Morgana, and Kaze had raced across fields and plains, and finally they weaved through the woods. Dismounting before their movement could be heard, they crept closer to the mill. The Monk and the paladins surrounded the mill, swords drawn. They were waiting for their prey to flee the burning structure. Kaze saw movement first and waved Nimue over, pointing at the doors to the storeroom beneath the ground. Arthur and Gawain stepped out first, but Nimue could see Squirrel right behind them, looking for an opening. “Morgana, Squirrel is going to make a break for it with the survivors. Intercept and take them to the horses.” Morgana nodded and slipped away. Nimue drew the sword and called to the Hidden. “I think I can do it,” she told Kaze. “Brother’s Blood. As soon as you can, get Gawain and Arthur out of there. Avoid the Weeping Monk. Do not engage him.” Kaze nodded solemnly and inched forward, ready to run.

‘He’s Ash Folk,’ Nimue thought to herself as she knelt with the sword held before her. She knew little of his kind, but she remembered one thing: Ash Folk were immune to fire and smoke. She refused to acknowledge the sense of relief she felt, knowing her magic would not harm him. He was still her enemy, or so she told herself, even as she felt some small part of her reaching out to him. She watched as he ran toward Arthur and Gawain and she closed her eyes. He meant to harm her friends. He was her enemy, but as her magic seized the smoke and flame before her, that small part of her mind touched his and it whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Lancelot.’

Time seemed to stop for a moment. The Monk, over two dozen Red Paladins, Arthur, Gawain—they all stopped to stare as the fire roared, as the smoke undulated and descended like some unearthly snake. Squirrel and the other trapped fey had already sprinted to safety. As the wicked whip of smoke struck the ground, Kaze dashed in and grabbed Arthur and Gawain. As they turned and ran for the cover of the wood, the smoke flooded outward and a paladin screamed, “It’s the witch! She’s come for us!” Witch. Demon. Marked by Dark Gods. She and her mate were monsters. The clash of metal and the screams of the paladins cutting each other down told her so.


	4. Bitter Harvest

He had felt it. He was immune to the smoke that sent his red brothers mad, but he’d faltered when he felt something clinging to her, draining her. Through whatever cursed bond they’d established between them, he felt something cold and dark, something distinctly unlike her. She was dangerous—she was the Wolf-Blood Witch and she was powerful—but he knew her spirit, her energy as if they had been acquainted since infancy. This dark energy had been absent when he met her... the sword. She had been unarmed when they met. If what he was feeling came from the sword, the Church could avoid a lot of bloodshed if they simply waited... The sword was evil. The sword was corruption, deception, and death. Even as the Weeping Monk stood by helplessly, watching his brothers cut each other down, his rage was dampened by concern for her... Nimue... She was not wielding the sword; somehow sentient, it was wielding her, and it was only a matter of time before it claimed her.

“Fey Queen! Fey Queen!” Kaze and Gawain both suggested it; they said her people had finally come to appreciate her power, that they needed her to give them hope. She would be their shield. She would be their sword. She was the daughter of a traitor and the mate of a traitor, and the sword was starting to scare her. A full day after killing the paladins at the mill, she still felt weak and dizzy if she stood too long. She hadn’t touched the sword since she’d returned and held it aloft to those chants of, “Fey Queen! Fey Queen!”

“Now they’ve burned the mill, only one farm remains within a days ride.” Nimue, Gawain, Kaze, Morgana, and Arthur stood outside, bent over maps of the area, trying and failing to find a safe route through which they could bring in food. If they cut existing rations in half for adults, they would only last a few more days before their stores were depleted entirely.

“Wagons are too slow with the enemy so close. We need to evacuate now,” Morgana insisted. She’d already introduced another smuggler friend of hers to the group; the woman offered the use of incoming ships that could ferry them to the desert lands, but the ships weren’t due for ten days.

“Where will we hide for ten days?” Gawain argued. “How will we keep everyone fed for ten days? if we attack the paladin camp to the west, we can reach the farms beyond them, at least until—“

“What?” Nimue asked him. “Until more paladins come? Until they burn those farms too?”

“We’ve all seen what you can do with that sword,” Gawain spoke to her gently, not like a knight to a queen, but like an elder brother to his sister. “The Weeping Monk was spotted by our scouts just this morning, so the paladins have likely been warned against starting fires recklessly—“

“But he survived,” Arthur interjected. Nimue flinched. “The second we hit any of the surrounding camps, he’ll be riding in with reinforcements, all of them targeting Nimue. If we lose her, then what? What will everyone inside think if their queen falls when they need her most?”

“I have more to offer them than paladin blood.” Nimue blinked when everyone fell silent around her, realizing she’d spoken aloud. Hearing Gawain and Arthur talk about the Weeping Monk had been unsettling, but it had also brought forth thoughts of the boy she’d imagined... Lancelot. The apple tree. “Before those Pendragon soldiers arrived, Merlin taught me new magic... I didn’t even know I was capable of such things, but I can grow food. I brought an apple tree back to life and grew apples.” For a long moment, her friends all stared. As they stared, their eyes brightened—like rays of sunlight through branches overhead, hope broke through shadows of doubt.

“I saw that tree,” Morgana murmured, “but I didn’t see... I had no idea. That tree was dead when we arrived?” Nimue nodded.

“It wasn’t easy,” Nimue admitted. “My magic responds more readily to anger and fear, responding violently... it takes more focus, more control, and I absolutely cannot touch the sword if I’m going to pull it off, but growing food didn’t drain me. I don’t need all my strength to do it. I just need...” Nimue shook her head. “I need to stop thinking of paladins and burning farms for a moment.” 

Without another word, Nimue stepped away from the crude table and made her way back inside, back into the vast mountain hollow that was the entrance of Numos. The space was crowded, but the energy tangibly different. Love. Her people looked upon her with awe and with love, and in that moment she needed them as much as they needed her. Squirrel ran over and started to speak, but Nimue shook her head. Kneeling before him, she took his hands in hers. “Be still a moment,” she asked him. “I’m trying something, but I need your help.” Squirrel smiled brightly and nodded, always ready to help her. Nimue could feel all the eyes on her, but her eyes were on the braided branches of the bridge overhead. That bridge had served as a perch the day before, a pedestal upon which she’d offered bloodshed, but her father had shown her she had more to offer. She could take life, and she could give life.

“Nimue?” Squirrel prompted, confused.

“What’s your favorite memory we’ve shared?” Nimue asked her little friend. “Before the paladins came. Something sweet or silly?” Squirrel took the question very seriously, his face scrunched up in thought. After a moment, he shrugged.

“I was trying to think of other things,” he said, “but it’s got to be our races.”

“Fast like the fox,” Nimue smiled. Good memories, but not enough. She could hear the whispers of the Hidden, and she felt the fine green vines spreading across her skin as her magic stirred, but the source wasn’t strong enough. She didn’t want to think of... him... There had to be another way.

“This may surprise you,” Gawain offered, walking up beside her and kneeling down as well. Turning for a moment, Nimue saw Kaze, Arthur, and Morgana standing close behind her. “I know you don’t like your scars,” Gawain continued. “I know you don’t like to think of the bear. I know the others gave you such grief over it, but I was in awe of you, I swear it. It’s because of you that I chose this path. If a little girl from my clan could face down a demon, I could do great things too. I’d been training for years before you were hurt, but I ventured beyond Dewdenn because of you, becoming the Green Knight instead of just another Sky Folk soldier. We lost everyone else when Dewdenn fell,” Gawain sighed, ruffling Squirrel’s hair and easily wrapping their joined hands in one if his, “but the three of us made it this far, thank the Hidden.” There! Almost! Nimue felt the branch within her extending, and everyone looked up at bridge when it sprouted a few leaves, but it wasn’t quite enough. So close...

“Misfits make it through,” Squirrel said proudly, but when Nimue looked at his face, she saw the bright blue eyes of little Lancelot. Nimue wondered how different things would be if Lancelot had been saved from the Red Paladins and her heart was flooded with warmth even as her eyes filled with tears. Giving life instead of taking it...

“You’ve done it!” Gawain cheered, clapping Nimue on the shoulder as every wooden thing turned green. Dark green leaves blanketed not only the large bridge, but every bridge, railing, and stray branch in the space. Dozens of shining apples swelled and hung heavily overhead. Another bridge to the right grew apples even as small shrubs grew in corners and produced plump, perfectly ripe berries. Onlookers crouched low and climbed the walls to inspect other plants growing in small clusters. Nimue hadn’t expected more than apples, but standing to admire her work, she dared to hope she could grow healing herbs at will with more practice.

“Fey Queen!” Someone cried. “Fey Queen!” The chanting began again. Gawain lifted Nimue off the ground in an exuberant hug, swinging her around in a circle, ecstatic.

“You’ve done it again,” he whispered in her ear. “You saved us.” 

Guilt quickly extinguished the flare of hope Nimue felt within, and she clutched her old friend closer, whispering back, “There’s something I have to tell you. Alone.”

It took some searching, but Nimue and Gawain found an isolated, private space near the hot springs. The springs were occupied, but the labyrinthine tunnels came to many dead ends near the upper exit, one of them spiraling inward in a way that prevented their voices from echoing through the hollow. “Merlin is my father,” Nimue blurted before she lost her nerve. “We met for the first time yesterday, but I suspected as much for a while, and he confirmed it. He also confirmed I have a trace on me. I had never heard of such a thing, but Merlin told me only Sky Folk rely so heavily on verbal, contractual betrothals.”

“I can confirm as much,” Gawain sighed, taking Nimue’s revelations in stride up to that point. “The traveling I’ve done... well, it’s been humbling to say the least. I can neither sense nor smell the trace on you, so you need not worry if you wish to keep that to yourself for now.”

“Do you know which clans can smell it? I know Yeva suspects something—she said I don’t smell like Sky Folk, but perhaps it’s because I’m Merlin’s daughter?”

“Moon Wings can smell traces,” Gawain said, shaking his head. “If she can’t pinpoint it, it’s because we’re surrounded by so many fey clans. Snake Clan can smell it as well.” Nimue froze.

“But they found me right after...” She meant to tell Gawain the truth anyway, but she was horrified by the thought that rumor might have already spread. “The clans capable of smelling it, can they identify individuals, or do trace scents only vary by clan? Merlin couldn’t smell it, but he could sense the clan...?” The little Snake Clan girl from the lake had encountered the Monk personally. If the Snake Clan couple that led her back through the tunnels could identify the scent of Ash Folk... Had they made the connection?

“It varies within clans. Sky Folk are quick and agile, but you and I are natural climbers while Squirrel is an unmatched runner. If it makes you feel better, as you’re clearly uncomfortable, only those who have met your mate will be able to identify them specifically by the trace they left on you, and that’s only if... well, it depends on exactly how close you and your mate have become.” Gawain’s cheeks turned faintly pink as he spoke, and he avoided Nimue’s eyes, but he still smirked and added, “You’ve turned as red as your apples, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” Nimue slapped his arm with an indignant huff. “There are very few Snake Clan survivors here. They found you shortly after?” Nimue nodded.

“We only...” She took a deep breath and tried to fight her blush. “Again, I had no idea we’d leave a trace. We were in the hot springs, and we ended up kissing. It just happened... but yesterday, Kaze, Morgana, and I found you at the mill because I somehow saw through his eyes...” Gawain had become very still, his eyes suddenly boring into the side of her head, no longer avoiding her. Nimue reluctantly turned to meet his gaze. She opened her mouth to explain, but Gawain had already put all the pieces together.

“He’s Ash Folk. Of course. I should have recognized the markings, those eyes...” Gawain shook his head and took a step closer to Nimue, taking one of her trembling hands in his. “You knew he’d survive, didn’t you? Merlin—your father—told you he was Ash Folk, so you knew he’d be immune to the smoke.” It wasn’t really a question, but Nimue nodded, avoiding her friend’s gaze even though his voice was gentle. “And you met him in the hot springs, so he’s been here?”

“He doesn’t know the way through the tunnels. I didn’t know the way through; that’s why I had to wait for the Snake Clan couple to find me.”

“How did you find the springs?” 

“Arthur found them and led me to them. He—the Monk—told me he’d been watching Arthur. He was going to attack him, but when Arthur came back with me, he changed his mind. Arthur and I quarreled and I accidentally conjured a wall of water. Arthur was frightened and I was still upset, so he left.”

“We should all be grateful then, that the Weeping Monk was so attracted to you,” Gawain said grimly. “He could have easily killed you. Were you even armed?” 

“No. I think that’s what really saved me. He wasn’t afraid of my magic, and he easily disarmed me when I got a hold of his dagger. He had his sword at my throat, but I was only cut because I tried to disarm him. If I had my sword, if I’d really attacked him, things might have gone differently.” Gawain blinked at Nimue, and then he laughed outright.

“He wasn’t afraid of your magic, and you clearly weren’t afraid of him,” he laughed.

“I was.”

“And yet you left a trace on each other.”

“We heard children coming. We were in the water and—”

“Please, no more details,” Gawain laughed. He composed himself quickly. “The Fey Queen and the Weeping Monk; your concern is understandable, but perhaps in time your association will help our lost brother find his way home.”

“He would only speak briefly of his time before the Red Paladins took him. He only said he was just a little boy, a boy he claims is long dead.”

“I shudder to think what they’ve done to him. To deny and hide his own origins, his own nature, to slaughter his own kind without pause...”

“I can’t tell anyone else about him. Not yet. But what of my father? Most regard him as a traitor and little more.”

“Morgana and Kaze tell me he tried to give you and the sword to Uther Pendragon.”

“I thought the same at first, but I’m uncertain.” Nimue paused, deep in thought. “He shared things with me. Personal things. Beautiful things. Terrible things. Mother had the sword because she stole it from him. At first, she did it to heal him, but when he demanded it back... Mother hid so much from me. Perhaps she thought she was protecting me, but Merlin was honest. Brutally honest.”

“You trust his words?”

“Few words were exchanged,” Nimue laughed darkly. “He let me enter his mind. He showed me his memories. He... he showed me what the sword did to him, what it will eventually do to me. He didn’t want to give it to Uther; he risked the wrath of Leper King Rugen, stealing fey fire so he can destroy it. He wants the sword destroyed, and he showed me how to use non-violent, nurturing magic. We aren’t going to forge some loving father-daughter bond overnight, but I don’t believe he’d betray me.”

“You don’t think the Weeping Monk will hurt you either?”

Nimue ripped her hand from Gawain’s and turned away. “I sound foolish.”

“You sound like your own person,” Gawain countered. “You don’t sound like Lenore’s cursed daughter. You don’t sound like Merlin’s powerful daughter. You sound like Nimue of the Sky Folk, our Fey Queen. You’re young and you’re going to make mistakes, but at least you have an open mind. You needn’t worry about the Snake Clan outing you if they did smell Ash Folk on you, because the various clans in there rarely speak. All fey are brothers, but in times of unrest we tend to act like wild animals with little trust in others. Your village is gone, you’re bloodied, and you’re still willing to give the lost ones a chance. You inspired me years ago, and you inspire me still.” Gawain gently gripped Nimue’s shoulders, pulling her around to face him. “You are exactly what our people need right now, whether they would admit as much or not, given these revelations.”

“You’ll tell no one?”

“Without your permission, not a soul,” Gawain vowed. “Have you told no one else? Is there no one else you trust with this burden?”

“I considered Arthur and Morgana, but some instinct stops me, and it’s not because they’re human. Of course I trust Squirrel, but he’s stubborn and willful as I am, with a temper to match. I worry he might slip if angered.”

“A fair assessment,” Gawain said, smiling in fond exasperation as he considered Squirrel. “Kaze perhaps? I don’t mean to pressure you, but I think you need someone else you can talk to, a fey female even better. If it helps, I believe you can trust Kaze with anything.” After a moment of consideration, Nimue nodded.

“Will you send Kaze up here? I’d like to return to the springs for a moment. If I can clear the area, maybe I can practice wielding water again.”

“You’re our queen,” Gawain reminded her, “and you just provided us with food when we were days from starving. Ask and you shall receive.”

“Ask Kaze to bring a couple apples then,” Nimue said, smiling. “I could grow more outside, but let’s see if you’re right.”

When Kaze found Nimue, she carried two apples and she found Nimue alone, the previous occupants of the springs gone. “My queen asked to speak with me?” Kaze asked. She chuckled when Nimue glared at her. “Embrace it,” she advised. “As if what you did at the lake and at the mill weren’t enough, now you’re a walking, talking farm when all other farms are burning. The children here will tell their children of the legendary young queen chosen by the Hidden.”

Nimue took a deep breath and told Kaze everything she told Gawain. Like Gawain, Kaze took everything in stride. Unlike Gawain, she got a mischievous glint in her eye and moved closer to Nimue, leaning even closer and openly sniffing her. “I didn’t recognize the scent of Ash Folk for what it was, but you do smell like him.” Nimue blushed and stepped back, nearly falling into the water before Kaze grabbed her arm and pulled her back, dropping the apples. “So, how did you end up kissing our Ash Folk brother?” Kaze pressed as if nothing had happened.

“When we heard children coming, I panicked,” Nimue admitted. “Yes, there was—I felt something between us—but I didn’t want him to have to do anything rash to get away.”

“How romantic,” Kaze chuckled. “Not what I meant. This is the Weeping Monk we’re talking about. He caught you here alone and unarmed—wait, were you even clothed?”

“I’m not sure what he saw before he revealed himself, but I was clothed when we spoke.”

“You said you were only cut when you tried to disarm him, and you did get hold of his dagger. Whether he’s aware of the trace and other fey mating instincts or not, he is Ash Folk, and they’re known for their unparalleled senses, so on some level he probably knew he could let you get close to him, but disarming him? In enemy territory?”

“I was cut when I tried to take his sword and toss him into the water,” Nimue explained. “I got the dagger when he threw it at me.”

“What?! You said he didn’t try to hurt you.”

“Not really. I used my magic, not really trying to hurt him, and he threw it to break my concentration. Technically the dagger cut me too, I forgot to mention that, but he saw the wall of water I created to keep Arthur back and I’m sure he expected me to call the water up again. He didn’t move from where he stood. The water hit the dagger so it barely touched me, and I went underwater to get it.”

“Until he jumped in to take it back?”

“I was taunting him. I’m not sure why I thought that was a good idea, but he was calling us all demons and I told him I had killed a real demon.”

“The demon bear Gawain mentioned?”

Nimue nodded and turned, pulling her sleeve down a little so Kaze could see the scars. As the Monk had, Kaze moved very close and lightly touched the scars. Nimue felt nothing more than Kaze’s rough fingertips on her shoulder. “I showed them to him as well, and he touched them too, but I felt something strange. He felt it too, I know he did, and he whispered...” Nimue hesitated. Ash Folk. Of course he was fascinated by the ‘embers’ in her skin. It was a small thing, but that moment suddenly felt too private to share. Nimue readjusted her sleeve. “Never mind.”

“As much as I would like to see what you can do with water, I’m sure you’d like more time to rest,” Kaze said. “Do you know how you saw through his eyes? Can he see through yours?” Nimue shook her head.

“Whatever bond he and I may share now, I’ll let you know if I think he’s using my eyes to help the Red Paladins.” Kaze nodded and left without argument, trusting her queen completely.

As she stood watching the steam rising from the springs, Nimue did wonder if the Weeping Monk might be watching for her, perhaps not at that very moment, but in general. Had he returned to this spot since they met? Would he? She didn’t know how she saw through his eyes, nor did she know what it would feel like if he looked through hers, but knowing what little she did know of him... Nimue turned and saw the two bruised apples on the ground. Picking them up, she walked over to the trees through which he’d passed. When she stood exactly where he stood when he told her his name, she picked up a sharp rock and carved the words, ‘He’s my father,’ into one apple. The Monk would know exactly what she meant. He had asked her a question, and this was her answer. Hoping he’d leave a return message, she placed the second apple beside the first, both of them hidden from view by trees and brush. Her scent would be all over them.

The next morning, Nimue wanted to rush right back to the springs, but a few dozen apples and a handful of berries weren’t enough for her people. The possibility of finding a message from the Monk excited her more than she cared to admit, but pleasant thoughts of him brought her nourishing power forward easily, and her people applauded as fresh produce grew again. There were fewer apples and berries, but scavengers quickly found more edible greens, and a very small patch of grain was spotted in a nook favored by faun children. Reluctant to waste much needed food, Nimue only took one apple with her as she slipped away, taking a few bites of it so she was at least feeding herself. Luck was with her as she found the hot springs empty. There was no sign of the Monk’s presence, but both apples were gone. Had someone else found the apples, eating the food despite the message? No... No. The Monk wanted something more. ‘Smoke immune Ash.’ She let him know she knew he’d survive.

‘Why?’ When Nimue returned with the following dawn, she found that one word carved into an old, bruised apple, the one he’d taken before. Since there was only one small word carved into the apple, clearly the work of a sharp knife, Nimue drew the knife she’d tucked into her boot and carved her answer into the same apple: ‘Trace. Mate bond.’

Tucking her knife back into her boot, Nimue rose and turned to walk away, but she paused when she felt a strange tingling behind her eyes. It was subtle, but noticeable. She blinked as the tingling faded, but her eyes still felt strange... they felt dry and tired, excessively so. She turned back to the trees, but she saw nothing. Nimue knelt down and read her reply. Was that what he was looking for? No. She heard no voice in her head, she felt no strange sensations in her body, but simple logic told her what he wanted. Rising again, Nimue walked quickly to the tunnels. She wouldn’t go far. She wouldn’t show him how to navigate through them to the heart of Numos, but she walked far enough in each direction to let him see the tunnels were empty. She was truly alone, though she was armed this time. A rustling in the trees told her the Monk didn’t mind; he certainly wasn’t approaching her unarmed. Stepping into view, the Weeping Monk picked up the bruised and rotting apple.

“I remember hearing of the trace as a child,” he said, his soft and gravelly voice making Nimue’s heart race, “but I remember very little.”

“I knew nothing about it until that morning,” Nimue admitted, only daring to move a few steps closer, “hours before you attacked the mill. I had gone to meet with Merlin, having only realized the night before that he’s my true father. He told me about the trace. He told me fey from a few clans can smell it while some can otherwise sense it; one of the latter, he told me I bore the trace of one from an Ash Folk clan. When we met... what I did when we heard those children coming... I had no idea it would...” Nimue trailed off, suddenly feeling like a child herself, too naïve and innocent to be called Fey Queen at any rate. 

“By then, I believe it was already done,” the Monk said, glancing at the sword on her back before moving closer, stopping a little more than an arm’s length away. “I recall feeling a shift of sorts when I touched your scars.”

“I lowered my sleeve so you could better see them.”

“You were correct in your assumption: I looked away when your body was fully exposed, but I looked when you were in the water. I told myself it was sinful and treacherous to lust after you, but I was weak in the face of temptation.”

“And facing you unarmed, I took advantage.”

“We are both inexperienced when it comes to the pleasures of the flesh. That much was clear. When your power did not deter me, you used the only weapon left at your disposal.”

“You are more forgiving than I believed you would be.”

“I can forgive what happened here because we were both overcome by our baser instincts, but at the mill—” The Weeping Monk’s gentle rasp had become harsh.

“You and those paladins were targeting an innocent family!” Nimue hissed. “And you were burning one of the few farms we had left!”

“We were baiting the Green Knight,” the Monk bit out. “My brothers want you to burn, but Father Carden wants him alive.”

“He’s as good as my brother in blood! All fey are brothers! You are one of us, not one of them!” The Monk’s eyes flashed, alight with anger, and he started to argue, but Nimue cut him off. “Do they know what you are?” She challenged. “I’m sure Carden knows—he’s abusing your senses to hunt us down—but the other paladins? If you’re one of them, why must you hide where you come from? Why not tell them how you were born?”

“You told your human companion you were abominated by your own kind!” The Monk’s voice whipped louder and more clearly than Nimue thought possible. “They called you witch and demon as my brothers do! Merlin may be the head of the snake, but he’s an outcast among the fey as well. Do not try to tell me you’ve confessed your father’s identity to all those inside. You said it yourself—you were so reviled by your own kind that when a demon sought to claim your life, only your mother made an effort to save you.”

In the time it took Nimue to grip the pommel of her sword, the Weeping Monk had already drawn both his sword and dagger. “Don’t,” he warned, and Nimue remembered that was the first word he ever said to her. “You aren’t yourself with that blade in your hand.”

“You just called me an abomination,” Nimue spoke in a pained whisper, unmoving. Just touching the sword, she could hear it whispering to her again. It wanted to hear the answering clash of steel. It wanted to avenge the slight against her.

“As I call myself an abomination every day,” the Monk spoke calmly, his own anger giving way to concern. “We are what we are, but we need not give in to our nature, and that sword... that sword is truly evil. Through this bond we clumsily formed, I could feel what it did to you at the mill. The very weapon you’ve used to kill dozens of my brothers is trying to kill you, make no mistake. It is urging you to take life and demonstrate your power even as it robs you of it.” 

Nimue’s fingers lingered on the blade still in its sheath, but her voice cracked and trembled, “I know.” She confessed. “Merlin wielded it before, and he warned me, he showed me what happened... but it will do the same to anyone who wields it, and only fey fire can destroy it.”

“You would see it destroyed?” The Monk was shocked. Lowering his weapons slightly, he took another measured step toward Nimue.

“Better destroyed than in the wrong hands, but that means it must be kept from the Church as well. Whatever you believe, if you truly felt it as you claim you did, you have to know what would happen if you took the sword to them. Admit it.”

The Weeping Monk stood stoically. He would not malign the Church, but she was right. He would never fully trust anyone wielding that sword. Slowly, he sheathed his dagger. When Nimue didn’t move, he returned his sword to its sheath as well. Slowly, he moved forward. When at last he was close enough, he gently gripped Nimue’s raised arm, silently urging her to let go of the cursed blade on her back. She resisted for a moment; the sword begged for freedom. “I can grow food without it,” she blurted. “Merlin taught me non-violent magic.” The Monk nodded.

“He knows his daughter and he knows the sword,” the Monk said softly, his voice seductively rough and compelling again. “Do you have access to fey fire? Does he?” Nimue nodded. 

“He does, and I agree it should be destroyed, but I have to save my people first. They named me their queen. I have to save them.”

Nimue’s big blue eyes were brimming with tears, an image of the sea she wanted her people to cross in peace. She finally let the weeping warrior drag her hand away from her weapon, gasping when he suddenly tugged her body flush against his, his lips greeting hers like old friends, one of his hands burrowing into her thick hair while the other splayed across her low back, lifting slightly so she could balance on her toes. The vivid blue of the Monk’s—Lancelot’s—own eyes flowed into hers and her eyes closed as she was overwhelmed. Their last kiss had been alarmingly comfortable, but this kiss was expectant, demanding. Passion was expected, and so it flared to inferno, engulfing them both. Lancelot’s wide, rough lips were unyielding. One of Nimue’s hands slipped inside his hood, sliding home around the back of his neck as her lips moved over his in an inept but eager, undulating dance. When Nimue’s other hand moved up his back, he flinched away, but he didn’t step back entirely, guiding her hand to his chest while he bent down to kiss her neck. When Nimue gasped loudly, he recoiled, looking sheepish, but seeing the wash of pink filling the space between the dark markings on his cheeks, Nimue smiled up at him in encouragement. It wasn’t encouragement enough. Regaining his composure, Lancelot pressed his chapped lips to hers for just a moment more, firmly, urgently. “Then run,” he whispered, his breath hot and ragged against her bruised lips. “We found the trail to the main entrance. Reinforcements are coming. This time tomorrow, Numos will burn.”


	5. Under Siege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Cailleach. No Widow (she helped Merlin get the fey fire, but nothing more). Nimue’s name was not given to the Widow. Merlin was still wounded because the bounty hunter was hired by the leper king.

‘No. Don’t do it. There has to be another way.’ He had no idea if she could hear him.

The Weeping Monk had never been more grateful for Goliath, his steady and trustworthy stallion. He and his red brothers were following the trail left by the fey fleeing Numos, the fey haven burning behind them. The others knew not where the trail would take them, but he knew. He could see the open gates of Grammaire through her eyes. He had been standing inside Numos, admiring all that she’d grown inside when the drain of the sword nearly brought him to his knees through their bond. He gripped a railing to keep himself upright, noticing the flame a moment too late. He recoiled, hiding his unharmed hand while he checked every red-robed man around him; no one had seen. “Tracks!” He heard a man bellow, “Wagons!” He gladly ran to Goliath, mounting up and barking orders even as he was robbed of his vision. When last he’d looked through her eyes, a question had triggered the shift. He had been straining to hear inside the tunnels, wondering if she was truly alone, and he suddenly found himself looking through her eyes. This shift occurred with no prompt at all... He’d spent half his life denying his nature, but his deepest instincts would not be cowed by whips and fists. He had kissed her again, holding her body against his. She was his, and he was hers. She was in danger, and there was nothing he could do but watch.

She had combined her own magic with that of the sword again. When he felt the drain, when his vision started shifting, he’d glimpsed the sea of red. She bore no visible wounds as her own horse navigated through the mangled bodies, but he felt her struggle to stay upright in the saddle. The sword was becoming more and more demanding. Her attack at the mill had claimed more lives, but this attack had been more taxing. Where were the others? Had they truly named her their queen? If so, why did she stand alone? Why did she approach the gates alone? He knew Grammaire was occupied by forty of his red brothers... by forty Red Paladins... if she had killed a dozen in the woods, that left twenty-eight inside. Nimue was powerful, but she was young and untrained. She was surely riding to her death. The Monk fought to keep his expression neutral. After so long on her trail, he couldn’t stand the thought that this would be her end. What was she thinking?!

Nimue started to slump forward in the saddle, but she forced herself upright, holding her head high and keeping her expression neutral. The tingling dryness in her eyes wasn’t helping; Lancelot was watching. Wherever he was, she hoped his blindness didn’t get him into trouble. She could feel concern and frustration bordering on rage leaking through the bond. She almost laughed. Not knowing her plan, he likely thought she’d lost her mind entirely. Of course, if anything went wrong, if her people inside weren’t ready... 

‘I have a plan, Lancelot,’ she tried to tell him, not really believing he could hear her. ‘If this doesn’t work... I can only hope it will help you see. Leave them. They can’t stop you, even if they kill me. Take the sword and leave.’

“Leave, and you will be spared the fate of your brothers in the wood,” Nimue spoke with all the confidence she could muster in her weakened state. She couldn’t see Gawain, Kaze, Arthur... only Red Paladins surrounded her, and a few humans stood back observing the spectacle, laughing along when the paladins laughed at her. Again, Nimue looked around, slowly dismounting so no one would notice the way she looked at the walls.

Reinforcements, the Monk realized. She’d been expecting reinforcements to be ready on the walls. She knew the sword would drain her, but she’d taken a calculated risk. Something had gone wrong and her enemies were calling her bluff. A fresh fey scent registered and the Monk stiffened, still unable to see.

“Peace, Ash Man,” a barely audible voice reached him. The Red Paladins around him continued on, hearing nothing. “You cannot see? Your eyes are with my daughter?” Merlin? The Monk nodded infinitesimally. “You’re about six horse-lengths from a narrow trail to your left. Tell them to go on without you.” 

“There’s another trail here. We can’t risk an ambush. Continue on this path and stay alert.” He could easily be walking into a trap, blindly no less, but this fey male’s scent was like Nimue’s, and Nimue had learned of the trace from her father. He was also confident he could fight one man blindly if it came to it. If Merlin was going to attack with magic, surely he would have done so already. One set of footsteps moved quietly beside him, robes brushing against ferns, a staff striking the ground gently but bearing more weight than necessary. “You’re injured,” he said softly. 

“Is she?”

“Scrapes and bruises.” The Monk flinched as Nimue was suddenly thrown. She’d been fighting sloppily, barely able to lift her sword, but she’d caught her opponent off-guard with a headbutt. Retaliation had come swiftly. “Where are her reinforcements? This is ridic—No!” She begged the sword for more power and it granted her wish, giving her just enough strength to cut her opponent in half before it took what it wished from her. The force of the drain made the Monk collapse, falling from his saddle. He hit the ground as she did, unconscious.

“Ewekin, esh werrour. Yua meti woll lovi. Ym deaghtir niids yua un yuar fiit.” The Weeping Monk stirred, hands searching for his weapons even half-conscious. He didn’t understand what was being said, but it shouldn’t be said. Fey. Demons. Magic. Evil. His training kicked in a moment before memory followed. Nimue. He opened his eyes, and his senses were in agreement: He was not in Grammaire. He was somewhere in the woods with Merlin the magician, Nimue’s father. Close enough to touch, he could smell Merlin’s wound. The Monk’s eyes flickered down to the man’s chest. It looked like a poisonous arrow had pierced him; something had partially cauterized the wound from within, but the wound was festering, the poison still spreading slowly. 

“Old as you are, can you not heal yourself?” Perhaps he could have chosen his first words to his mate’s father more tactfully, but it was no small thing for him to converse with fey without threatening them. Nimue was different. Merlin laughed.

“Lenore’s daughter indeed. She believes I betrayed her, but she keeps my secrets.”

“She told me you want to destroy the sword,” the Monk confessed, sitting up and flexing stiff muscles. “She agrees it should be destroyed, but you have the fey fire she needs.” Merlin blinked at the Monk, clearly taken aback. 

“She seeks the fey fire? She wants to destroy the sword? Something significant changed since last we spoke.”

“Perhaps the sword had not yet turned on her,” the Monk mused. “Three times now, I’ve felt it through our bond... I assume I would know if it killed her?” Merlin nodded, his eyes kind. 

“It’s understandable that you too know so little of the trace,” he said softly, almost too kindly for the Monk’s comfort. “I felt Lenore’s passing when Dewdenn was attacked. I knew nothing of Nimue until she sought me out at her mother’s behest, but when we met... I knew she was my kin as surely as I knew she’d found an Ash Folk mate. She told me nothing about you at all, but when my wits returned to me I worked it out: The Weeping Monk. We’ve never met, but you’re named for your markings, and she was clearly raddled by your bond, poor thing. Her father and her mate are both traitors to her kind.”

“She’s their queen,” the Monk bristled at Merlin’s words, but instead of denying his fey origins, he felt the need to defend Nimue. “She slays paladins by the dozen, and she used the food-bearing magic you taught her to feed her people. I don’t believe they know about either of us, but they love her. They hated her in Dewdenn. They feared her, but now they trust her to save them.” The Monk’s earlier frustration returned with a vengeance. “They look to her to save them, but where were they when she needed reinforcements?! She understands the dangers of wielding that wicked sword more than necessary; she wants it destroyed as soon as she can get her people somewhere safe, but when she needed them at her back, they failed her! The sword nearly killed her! I’ve no idea how she survived that last draining, surrounded by the enemy no less, but they expect more of their young queen than anyone expects of Uther Pendragon!”

Merlin’s eyes were still kind, twinkling with some humor. “You have a reputation for being both deadly and quiet,” he mused. “Is it your bond to my daughter that moves you to speak so freely? Or are you more relaxed away from your red-robed... comrades? Forgive me, I know not what to call them as I clearly heard you refer to them as enemies just now.”

“Her enemies,” the Monk corrected, abruptly standing and moving a few steps back from Merlin. He silently puzzled over how comfortable he was in the conjurer’s presence, and that line of thinking brought him back to his original question: “Why have you not healed yourself?”

“It sounds like Nimue shared more with you than she shared with me,” Merlin sighed. “How the sword came to her? I’m not evading your question again, I assure you.”

“Her mother gave it to her when Dewdenn fell,” the Monk responded cooly, adjusting his hood and his belt. “When you met, you told her you wielded it last. You told her wielding it was dangerous and it should be destroyed. That is all I know beyond what I’ve felt through the bond.”

“I tried to dispose of the sword by hiding it in my own body,” Merlin said bluntly, lifting his shirt and tugging his trousers down below one hip, showing the Monk the mark on his side. It looked more like a brand than a scar, but it was distinctly sword-shaped. “Lenore, Nimue’s mother, saw I was near death and extracted the sword to save me. She was betrothed to another, but we fell in love while she healed me—that’s how Nimue came to be, I’m afraid—and the sword was forgotten for a few days. Lenore recognized the sword, and she was protecting me when she hid it away, but when I realized my magic was gone... Well, Lenore and I parted in anger, and I became quite the showman. I cannot heal myself, because the sword stripped me of my magic.”

“You’re certain it was the sword?” The Weeping Monk was nothing if not observant, and as shocking as Merlin’s confession had been, the coincidences had not gone unnoticed. The Monk wondered if Merlin was testing him or if the thoughts had truly not occurred. “The sword was removed from your body, you bonded with your mate, you conceived a child, and in doing so you broke a betrothal. I recall nothing of fey betrothals. Is there any chance you were cursed for your involvement with a betrothed woman? Is it possible your power was transferred to your daughter? She’s performed magic the likes of which I’ve only heard of in old legends. My bond with her hasn’t stripped her of her power, so I doubt your trace harmed you, but surely you’ve considered these possibilities? I’ve felt the drain of the sword through our bond, and it seems purely physical. Back in Numos, I felt it draining her and I accidentally passed my hand through flames—I have no magic, but my inborn immunity was unaffected.” The Monk blinked. He hadn’t meant to share that detail. His bond with Nimue was making him too comfortable around her father. As for Merlin himself, the man looked somewhat sheepish.

“The possibilities occurred,” he admitted. “Fey betrothals are not cursed, and the memory-sharing magic I was able to work with the aid of the spirits of Festa and Moreii... If Nimue’s magic was my magic, not the magic of my kin, I would have felt it.”

“If you had sensed your own magic in her?” For the first time since he heard Merlin’s voice, the Weeping Monk’s hand landed on the pommel of his sword. 

“I believe the sword took my magic and I want it destroyed,” Merlin bit out as his own temper flared. “I would not have harmed her! I led you here because I know she’s taken Grammaire by now. You and I both know she only bought herself a fortnight at most, probably less. There will be paladins and Pendragon soldiers out there preparing a siege in no time. The Ice King may come for her and the sword as well; I tried speaking to Cumber, but I doubt he’ll negotiate. My relationship with Uther is tenuous at best, but I’m sure he’ll be more amenable. I’m going to Grammaire to help my daughter. How strong is your bond with her? I turned my back on her mother. Will you walk away from her before you’re discovered, or will you go to your mate in her hour of need? Do you serve the Church, or is the Queen of the Fey your queen?”

The Weeping Monk said nothing, but his hand fell to his side. He did not draw his sword on Merlin.

Nimue woke slowly, and when she woke, she believed herself dead. “Pym? Am I dead?” 

“No, silly, I lived!” Pym gushed, pulling Nimue up into an awkward but jubilant hug. Just like that, Nimue had her best friend back.

Ignoring the burn on her left hand, the brand left by the sword, Nimue tried and failed to save Pym’s viking love, Dof. She nearly collapsed again, seeing spots as she pushed her body and her magic as far as she could without asking more of the sword. She felt tingling behind her eyes and she closed her eyes, shaking her head. “No,” she murmured aloud. “I’m fine. Don’t get yourself caught.” When she opened her eyes, Pym was staring at her. Noting the tears on her best friend’s cheeks, she pulled Pym down a deserted hall, finding a storeroom in which she could confess. Merlin, the Weeping Monk, the power of the sword... She had just failed her friend, but she still trusted Pym more than her human advisors. Nimue allowed a few tears of her own to fall, and Pym cried with her. They had no time to waste, but just for a moment, they let themselves mourn the lives they lost. Since the burning of Dewdenn nothing had been the same, and their lives would never be so simple again.

“Fey Queen,” Pym sniffed, wiping Nimue’s eyes before wiping her own. “Wow.”

“I know, it’s madness,” Nimue said, smiling despite herself.

“Nothing’s ever made more sense!” Pym insisted. “It made sense you didn’t want to be on the Sky Folk council; they didn’t even pretend to care about you or anyone else too different, but you care about everyone, or at least everyone not trying to hurt you! You keep an open mind! You can be Queen of the Fey because you aren’t afraid of different and strange.”

“I am different and strange.”

“Exactly! Just wait ‘til you meet the Red Spear; she seems cold and cruel at first, but you’re really quite similar. Her people follow her for the same reasons—well, she doesn’t have your sword or your magic—her people follow her because she fights for the people the Ice King would cull without a thought. She fights for the outsiders, same as you.”

“I hope to meet her, then,” Nimue said, giving her friend one more hug and leading the way back down the hall. “Right now, I need to find Arthur and Morgana. I could use Gawain’s help as well, but Arthur and Morgana are related to Lord Ector, by marriage at least. I need to... well, I do need to claim Grammaire officially, don’t I? Having them there may help... or make things worse. Gods, I don’t know what I’m doing!” 

“I think the fact that you can admit that is a good thing,” Pym commented. 

Returning to the infirmary and finding it empty of the living, Pym stopped Nimue with a hand on her arm. “You do realize they can’t burn him?” Nimue turned in time to see Pym ripping her gaze from Dof’s body.

“Him?” Nimue asked, confused.

“Your mate,” Pym whispered. “He’s Ash Folk, so they can’t burn him, and they say he’s an unmatched warrior. If they can’t burn him or cut him down, it’s not such a massive risk for him to be with you. The biggest threat against him will be the fey, and they named you Fey Queen, so harming your mate would make them traitors too. I’m just saying, if you want him, you can have him.” Giving Nimue no time to respond, Pym walked over to kneel beside Dof. Giving her friend space to grieve, Nimue walked outside, her own emotions suddenly spinning out of control.

The meeting with Lord Ector did not go well, and the man brought out the worst in his niece and nephew, but once Lord Ector left the room, Nimue allowed herself to collapse upon her acquired throne. Gawain had also joined them, and he rushed forward when he realized she was still so very weak. Arthur moved to help her as well, but he paused when he saw the way Nimue reached for the Green Knight. He knew there were no romantic feelings between the two, but he’d never seen Nimue so readily accept help. Morgana noticed as well. Unnoticed by the fey heroes, brother and sister exchanged looks of hurt and suspicion. In that moment, they knew they’d missed something significant, or rather... they’d been left out.

“I should go out in the square and grow food,” Nimue spoke softly, making no move to stand. Gawain still laid a hand on her arm, keeping her seated. “The humans here will be more accepting if they see we won’t consume all their food.” 

“They can wait a little while,” Gawain insisted. “You’ll help no one if you’re drained again.”

“The sword did that. My violent magic does that. Growing food doesn’t drain me at all.”

“You said it takes more focus,” Arthur interjected.

“And it seems to require positive thought,” Morgana added. “Uncle Ector certainly doesn’t inspire such contentment.”

As if on cue, Kaze and Pym entered with another controversial figure. In her exhaustion, Nimue almost let out a laugh. Her feelings about her father had changed for the better since she last saw him, but to see him at that moment... the sword had very nearly claimed her life, and the fates had dropped Merlin at her feet to rub it in. A small laugh did escape her, making Arthur and Morgana stare at her incredulously. Gawain, Kaze, and Pym hid smiles, recognizing the irony of her position as well. Suddenly uncomfortable with so many secrets hanging in the air, Nimue decided her human advisors needed to know the truth... most of it.

“Welcome to Grammaire, Merlin” she began formally, sitting up straight and speaking clearly. “I see you’ve met Kaze and Pym. This is Gawain, the Green Knight,” she gestured to Gawain and he nodded in greeting. “And here are my friends and advisors, Morgana and Arthur, niece and nephew of Sir Ector. Morgana, Arthur, this is Merlin the magician, my father. I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending the others present did not know of our relation. This is the first time they’ve formally met, but I did confess to Gawain, Kaze, and Pym that he is my father. I found out the day he and I first met, before the mill burned. I know not why I hesitated to tell the two of you the truth.” Nimue started to apologize, but again some instinct stopped her. Queen of the Fey, she reminded herself. They had to accept that she would not tell them everything. An apology would imply that she had. She briefly met Morgana’s gaze; Morgana seemed to suspect Nimue was holding something back, but she nodded in respectful acknowledgement. When Nimue turned to Arthur, he started to look away, his anger there on his expressive face for all to see, but with some effort he met her gaze and nodded as well.

“Merlin... Father, this is not a purely social visit, I presume?” Merlin chuckled softly, clearly touched by his daughter’s choice to use familial terms. The Weeping Monk had not led him astray; her opinion of him had obviously changed.

“I’m afraid not, Fey Queen.” He replied formally. “For all the roles I play, today I am a messenger. It will come as no surprise that Uther Pendragon’s army marches this way as we speak, as do the Red Paladins. They’ll be camped beyond the walls by nightfall, I believe. The Ice King has also heard of your movements, but he has yet to send his own soldiers this way. More messengers will come, messengers with strong allegiances to your enemies. I come as your messenger, your scout, your eyes and ears... and as your father, I urge you to negotiate. You have the sword, and you have your magic, but you do not have numbers. You can only protect your people—our people— from the coming siege if you forge an alliance with one of the forces against you. I have heard from a credible source that the smuggler you sent for ships was caught and executed. I know warriors allied with the Red Spear are within these walls, and they may offer you some assistance, but please, I beg of you, please consider other offers that may come. I am now at your disposal. I will go out and negotiate on your behalf if you wish, or I will remain here with you if you’ll have me. I’m here to help you in any way I can.” Merlin was gasping for air by the end of his speech, his knees nearly buckling while one hand covered his chest.

“You’re wounded,” Nimue observed, standing with noticeable effort. Merlin smiled.

“Quite the pair, aren’t we?” Noticing the burn on Nimue’s hand for the first time, Merlin flinched, his smile falling. “Truly a pair. The sword marked you as well.”

“It did, but I’m recovering. I was about to grow food in the square. That bit of magic you taught me saved our lives in Numos; I’m hoping to keep the peace within these walls by offering what I can.” 

“If your friends and advisors here will allow it, I’ll join you,” Merlin said, smiling again.

“You need healing,” Nimue argued. “I am simply tired.” 

“My wound is poisoned. I’ve already tended it as much as I can. You surely lack the ingredients needed for the necessary poultice, and I cannot ask you to attempt healing magic in your current state. Our people need you; I am but one man.”

“I can grow more than apples,” Nimue offered, moving closer to her father. “I might be able to grow what you need.” Taking one of Merlin’s arms, she turned to Pym. “Search the infirmary. See what we’ve got to work with.” Pym nodded and left the room. 

“I should look into what happened with my friend, the ships...” Morgana was still upset, but ready to get back to work. Nimue nodded.

“Do so,” Nimue responded. “Thank you. Arthur, please take Kaze and show her all the secret and little-known passages in and out of the city. Gawain, check in with our guards on the wall. With two armies coming, we don’t want to appear lax in our position.” Morgana, Arthur, and Kaze left immediately. Gawain paused long enough to give Nimue’s shoulder a comforting squeeze, a twinkle of pride in his eyes.

“Well done, Fey Queen,” he said. He was almost out the doors when Merlin spoke again.

“Does he know?” He asked Nimue, tilting his staff toward the Green Knight. “You said he, Kaze, and Pym knew the truth about me. Do the same three know about the trace?” Nimue nodded and Gawain turned to face his old friend and her father. “I spoke to your Monk. Yes, I put that little puzzle together on my own. I was able to pull him aside as he left Numos, and it’s a good thing I did. He feels the power of the sword through your bond. He collapsed when you did, though he recovered quickly. He’s made his decision.”

“Decision?” Nimue questioned. “Between the fey and the paladins?”

“Between his masters and his mate,” Merlin amended. “He has some reservations, but I could easily tell they’re rooted in the insecurities that come with an incomplete mating bond. He’s rejoined the paladins for now, but only to get a better idea of their plans while they set up camp. I meant what I said: I’m here to help you in any way I can, and I intend to help your mate enter Grammaire.”

“The Weeping Monk will openly serve the Fey Queen?” Gawain asked, to clarify.

“They will need some time alone together,” Merlin said, “and then yes, he’ll come around. The poor lad only hesitates because he doesn’t recognize his feelings for what they are. Father Carden and his Red Paladins poisoned his mind, but thank the Hidden he can still think for himself. When he feels the full power of a complete mating bond, he’ll never question his feelings again.”

Nimue’s blush was intense and widespread, making her appear wide-awake and healthy once more. The fact that her father could speak so freely about the status of her mating bond, in the presence of another man no less... “Wait. Poison,” She remembered. “You’re suffering from a poisoned wound, yet here we still stand.” That was all Gawain needed to hear. Not wanting to think about the mating status of the girl he regarded as a younger sister, he made his exit. Nimue helped her father back outside, wondering how long it would be before she and Gawain could look each other in the eye again. “Did you have to say all that to him?” She hissed. Merlin chuckled.

“I’m sure I’ll need help getting your mate inside, and of your few confidants he seemed like the best choice. Surely the Fey Queen and the Green Knight can work something out.”

“You are never to discuss my mating status with anyone, ever again.”

“Nimue! You’re awake!”

“Squirrel, this is Merlin, my father. Father, this little terror’s name is Percival, but we all call him Squirrel. He prefers it.” While Squirrel gaped and Merlin laughed, Nimue released her father’s arm and walked out into the middle of the square, immediately drawing everyone’s attention, human and fey alike. Even Sir Ector looked on with a mixture of resentment and interest. The fey children started hopping up and down excitedly, their enthusiasm drawing many observers closer. Taking a deep breath, Nimue closed her eyes, imagining roots connecting her feet to the ground and holding her arms out like tree branches.

“Witch,” she heard a human female whisper in the ensuing, expectant silence. She ignored the taunt. Lancelot would be with her soon. He was leaving the paladins. He was rejoining the fey. They were mates, and soon they would be properly mated. In time, the Weeping Monk would be forgotten, Lancelot of the Ash Folk taking his place. Lancelot... First, there was a low murmuring, then came gasps of surprise and wonder. There were a couple screams followed by retreating footsteps. “Witch!” A few more humans recoiled in fear, but as the whispers of the Hidden became clearer than ever before, there came applause. “Fey Queen!” The energy of the crowd shifted and her magic surged. Children squealed in delight. Small arms wrapped around Nimue’s waist and short antlers poked her ribs. Opening her eyes, Nimue lifted the faun child off the ground. She was still exhausted, and her injured hand objected, but the little boy was trying to reach the branches overhead. Where there had been naught but empty space beside Nimue, there stood a full-grown apple tree. The humans in the square watched with bated breath as the faun child picked an apple and bit into it without pause. The food was real. It was safe and edible. 

“It varies each time, what I’m able to grow,” Nimue announced as she placed the little boy back on the ground. “If you see a plant you don’t recognize, point it out to one of us and we’ll identify it for you. Some of what I grew might be medicinal, so only eat what you recognize as food. If this tree or other large plants are in your way, they can be cut down, but waste nothing. We may have come here uninvited, but we mean you no harm, and we do not wish to burden you more than necessary. We will not consume your food while you go hungry. We are only here temporarily, and we hope to live peacefully within these walls. The Red Paladins call me the Wolf-Blood Witch, but I am Nimue of the Sky Folk, Queen of the Fey. So long as you do not harm my people, you need not fear me.”

There was a ringing silence following Nimue’s speech, the humans exchanging glances while the fey watched them warily. “If all fey who understand the common language spoken here will raise their hands?” Gawain prompted from the wall, his voice loud and clear but startling no one. He raised his left hand high and Nimue immediately raised her uninjured right hand, looking around the square at her people. Half of them raised their hands in unison. A few more hesitated, then they reluctantly raised their hands as well. 

“Thank you, Green Knight,” Nimue spoke up again as hands fell. She would let Gawain decide whether or not he wanted be addressed by his given name publicly. 

There was another long silence, then a young woman slowly lifted her arm, pointing at a patch of white flowers near the gate. “Yarrow,” Squirrel spoke first, running over and pulling some from the ground. “Medicine. Don’t eat this one. It goes to the infirmary.” Walking over to the infirmary, he laid the flowers on the ground just outside the door. Leave it to Squirrel to break the ice. After that little display, everyone started exploring. Nimue’s magic had touched every corner of the city. Apples, plums, lemons, carrots, potatoes, yarrow, valerian, lavender, and peppermint were all identified before sunset. Spotting new trees and shrubs outside the walls, Gawain and Kaze led small groups out to gather everything her magic had produced.

Thrilling as it was to discover she could grow medicinal plants, Nimue was disappointed when she could not find what she needed to heal her father. As some of her strength returned, she tried to use healing magic on him, but she quickly became dizzy, nearly fainting again. She hadn’t touched the sword again, though she kept it in its sheath on her back.

“May I?” Merlin asked her. She startled slightly, having been lost in thought. She and Merlin stood on the wall, looking out at the flickering fires of the Pendragon and paladin camps.“The sword,” Merlin clarified. “Might I hold it for a moment? Who knows? My own magic might return, then I’ll heal myself.” Nimue lifted the sheath up and over her head, letting her father slide it off her arm. They exchanged a long look, and then he finally gripped the pommel, drawing the sword. They both gasped in shock and alarm when the blade responded, markings alight like embers in the night. Merlin doubled over for a moment, nearly dropping the sword, but he pushed Nimue back when she moved to help him. He closed his eyes and focused through the searing pain he felt lancing through his body, tuning out the whispers of the sword and focusing on the whispers of the Hidden. He hadn’t expected it to actually work, but just that easily, he could indeed feel his magic returning. “Rain.” Nimue had to lean in close to hear him. “Uther demanded rain.” Rolling thunder drew attention to the rapidly accumulating clouds overhead, and as Merlin stood upright again, all signs that he was ever wounded gone, rain began falling, pouring, extinguishing all the fires in the distance. Merlin’s eyes opened, and Nimue was momentarily blinded by the lightning in his eyes. His eyes flashed, and the answering flash in the sky illuminated the ground.

“Stop! Stop!” Nimue screamed, racing down the stairs to the gate. Gawain and Kaze had returned, a large body held between them. The other fey warriors with them looked confused, some of them angry, but Squirrel walked in ahead of them all, looking guilty.

“I’m sorry, Nimue,” Squirrel cried. “I didn’t know!” Nimue shook her head slowly, not believing her eyes. If Lancelot could feel the sword draining her through their bond, how had she not felt this?


	6. Ash and Sky

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Lancelot groaned, raising his head to meet Nimue’s eyes with his own. His hood had fallen away, and though Merlin’s rain had stopped as abruptly as it had begun, his hair was soaked and water dripped down his face, washing away streaks of blood not his own. “And don’t blame the boy. I paid a small price for a secret we kept too long. Salt has done far worse, many times over the years.” Lancelot flinched as he rose to his full height, but he stripped his arms from the shoulders of Gawain and Kaze. Wary of the angry eyes watching them, Nimue took one of his hands and pulled him forward. Gawain shut the gate while Kaze positioned herself between Lancelot and the angry fey warriors. Nimue noticed they were all wounded, but all visible cuts were shallow and in odd places. Lancelot’s wounds were deeper, the worst of them on his chest and shoulders. 

“There were a couple paladins out there,” Squirrel said. “Scouts or something. They saw me and tried to grab me. He attacked them. He was helping me, but everyone heard the fight and came running, and they attacked him.”

“We didn’t know you were mated,” a tusk warrior grumbled. There were gasps all around. 

“Yes, we’re mated,” Nimue announced, carefully wrapping an arm around Lancelot, standing tall beside him, “and we had good reason to keep our relationship hidden. Believe it or not, we all owe him our lives. He warned me when the Red Paladins were preparing to attack Numos. It’s thanks to him we made it here, and that is all you need know right now. Gawain, Kaze, please see our wounded warriors to the infirmary. I will tend to my mate personally. We will reconvene tomorrow morning, at which time I will address our people formally regarding this matter. I do apologize to everyone who came to harm tonight because of our secret. For now, I bid you all good night, may the Hidden speed your healing.”

“Fey Queen indeed,” Lancelot whispered as Nimue guided him to the small bedroom she’d selected for herself near the throne room. “I admit I doubted their devotion to you when they were not ready to defend you at the gate, but it speaks volumes that they follow your command without pause when angered.” Lancelot’s breathing was labored, his voice pained as he spoke, but he was making a valiant effort to ease the guilt he saw in Nimue’s eyes. “This wasn’t your fault,” he finally spoke plainly.

“But it is,” Nimue said as she removed his cloak and helped him into a chair by the small washroom. He unhooked his belt and set his weapons on the ground beside him. “Tell me why I didn’t feel this through the bond. You felt it each time the sword drained me. I could even feel you trying to look when I tried to heal someone after I regained consciousness. At about the same time this attack must have happened, I was trying to heal my father, straining myself again when all he had to do was draw the sword himself; his magic was restored and he healed himself. Had I not worn myself so thin, I probably would have seen through your eyes. I could have prevented this.”

“How so?” Lancelot asked, allowing her to peel off his bloody tunic, though he tried to keep his back in shadow. “The whole mess was over and done with in less time than it would have taken you to reach me on foot. Roots and vines? Walls of water? As you said, you have not yet recovered enough for that, though I did notice you did some redecorating in the square.” Nimue blinked, surprised by his sudden change of tone, by the light in his eyes. 

“Oh, that,” she laughed after a moment. “Growing food—growing edible and medicinal plants, I should say—that type of magic doesn’t drain me. Now that I think about it, I’m surprised that magic didn’t connect us somehow. After all, I have to think of you to do it.” Nimue hid her nerves well, blotting at Lancelot’s wounds with a clean, wet cloth, but he caught her hand following that admission, stilling her movements until she met his eyes again.

“That type of magic is nothing short of miraculous, and you think of me when you use it?” He sounded both incredulous and shyly flirtatious. Nimue broke away from him to rinse the cloth. Her hands trembled slightly when she moved to clean the fresh wounds on his back. He tensed, but he allowed it. Nimue said nothing about the old scars from his lashings, but a chill ran up Lancelot’s spine when her fingers tentatively traced some of the curved, layered markings.

“The first time was right after we met. I knew your real name, and I used that. I imagined what you might’ve been like as a boy, back before... all of this...” Nimue’s breath caught and Lancelot could smell her tears. He caught her hand again and pulled her around so she stood facing him again. Reaching up slowly, he wiped away the two tears that had fallen to her jawline, one of his thumbs barely grazing one corner of her lips. “In Numos, I... I tried to use other memories. I was afraid to let myself feel too much for you, but when I looked at Squirrel, Percival, the boy you saved tonight, I imagined him with your eyes and your markings and everything grew. Here, today... Father told me he spoke to you, that you were coming, and... well, you saw it. I redecorated the square, as you said.”

Nimue had initiated their first kiss. Lancelot had seized the chance to kiss her a second time. Their third kiss just happened. As naturally and involuntarily as they looked through each others eyes, they came together. Nimue bent down at first, carefully avoiding Lancelot’s wounds, but he was too accustomed to ignoring physical pain to hold himself back for long. No longer worried about being caught together, they could fully appreciate the way their lips moved together. Lancelot finally allowed himself to appreciate the complexity of his mate’s scent, no longer hunting her, no longer leading paladins away from her—the loamy scent of Sky Folk, petrichor, the subtle sweetness of wildflowers, the hint of resin from her father, and a kiss of his own scent—he dipped lower, gently kissing her neck again as he inhaled the scent of his long lost home. Nimue gasped as she had before, reflexively clutching his bare shoulders only to recoil when her fingertips came back wet with blood.

“Wait,” she whispered, even as she moved to kiss his lips once more. She made herself step back and she was momentarily lost in his eyes, blue as her own, enhanced by his contrasting markings. As he stood before her again, she stood on her toes to kiss the markings on his cheeks. “I don’t want to worry about hurting you.” Lancelot sighed and sank back down into the chair behind him.

“No matter how careful I am, I’ll hurt you, won’t I?” Nimue blushed, but she didn’t look away. She stepped closer, between his legs, and after a brief pause his hands found her hips, holding her in place.

“I’m told that passes quickly,” She said softly, reassuringly. “And it’s just once, then it’s done. Look at you. Every move we make would hurt you.” As passion dimmed, concern flared to life once more, and Nimue’s magic reached out to heal her mate before she made a conscious choice to call to the Hidden.

“No, you need rest,” Lancelot objected when he saw the delicate green vines taking up residence on her face and neck.

“I’m not doing it deliberately,” Nimue responded quietly, thoughtfully, taking note of how her magic felt flowing through her body. “I’m alright... It’s not draining me. I don’t feel dizzy or faint. It feels like...” It was flowing upward through her, as if coming from invisible roots. Nimue laughed. “Of course it’s safe. I’m thinking of you.” Lancelot smiled up at her, his curious fingers moving up to feel the green markings on her face. “You’re the exception. You’re my stable flint to the fire.” Nimue giggled. She truly giggled like a giddy girl. “Of course you are. My Ash mate.” 

Lancelot tensed for the briefest moment as her magic connected. He nearly laughed with her. She had become his obsession so easily. From the moment he saw the wolves outside Dewdenn, he’d been fascinated. Seeing what her power had done to Odo, the challenge she presented had excited him. He could finally admit to himself that her scent had bewitched him from the start. Since that day, he had been consumed by thoughts of the Wolf-Blood Witch. She’d evaded him, frustrated him, she’d taunted and distracted him. He’d wondered when his turn would come, when he’d feel the touch of her magic. He was sure the vines that reached for him the day they met would have felt nothing like this. It felt like he was being bathed in flame, in the most pleasant and comforting way. Waves of warmth danced over his skin, lapping at his open wounds until they were expertly, effortlessly tempered and welded shut. A moan of pleasure escaped him before he could contain it. He tensed again as he heard Father Carden in his head—demon, sinner, abomination, impure. Sensing where her mate’s mind had gone, Nimue inched closer, her outer thighs brushing against his inner thighs. His hands flew to her hips again and his eyes pierced hers. 

Lancelot was completely healed. Scars from his old wounds remained, but as Nimue had confessed to Arthur while her mate listened out of sight, she rather fancied men with scars. She didn’t want to think about the cruel whippings he’d endured, but there was no denying the shirtless man before her was a warrior. His scars, the defined muscles in his arms, his chest, and on downward... Nimue stepped back as a foreign heat filled her being. Lancelot automatically stood and moved with her. Like her, he was entering new territory, but this dance had become second nature—cat and mouse, hunter and prey—she moved and he followed. Acting on instinct, Nimue took his hand and pulled him closer, only to spin to the side and evade him. Still acting on impulse, she sat in the chair he’d vacated, a playful glint in her eyes. This too had become part of their dance. When he thought he had her, she did something unexpected, distracting and challenging him, curiosity consistently overpowering fear. He was no longer her enemy, but still such a mystery. How would he respond? What would he do? He stared at her for a moment, then his eyes flickered down to the weapons he’d set aside. Nimue dove for the belt while he lunged, stepping on the leather and dragging it away from her. She still managed to pull his dagger from its sheath. A familiar dance indeed, they both smiled at the shared memory even as he knelt down to draw his sword. Facing no real threat, he drew the blade slowly, noting the new scent renting the air—his mate was a rare, courageous creature, the prospect of a play-fight making her so desirous.

“Do you think you can reach me?” He challenged softly, confidently, knowing exactly what the sound of his voice did to her; she shivered agreeably, just as she had before. 

“You have the longer blade.” He was unprepared for the seductive purr she unleashed on him. She’d employed flirtation in her attempts to distract him, but never with such commitment. She lunged and his parry was almost too slow. The minx knew she’d shocked him. Two could play at that game. Not once before had he moved to strike first, not against her, so he did. Quickly stepping to her left side and bringing his sword up in a sweeping arc, he startled her so she stumbled backward, giving him just enough room to complete the arc, bringing his blade down on her right side. Nimue brought the dagger in her right hand up quickly, but she’d lost all leverage. Blocking his strike, she was forced backward again. When his sword caught her crossbar, she should have dropped the dagger, but she surprised him again, dropping down to one knee and turning so she could free the dagger and swing it toward his legs. Though the space barely allowed for it, he flipped to dodge her sweeping arm, lightly tapping her right shoulder with the flat of his blade as he landed on his feet.  


“You have good instincts,” he praised. “Few would avoid disarmament in that position. Your weakness lies in your footwork.”

“You’ll have to train me,” Nimue replied, rising slowly, Lancelot’s sword still resting on her shoulder. He knew she wasn’t giving in so easily. “Whatever happens with the Sword of Power, the Red Paladins will still come for me. I have no intention of standing idle while my people defend me.”

“Strike with magic whenever you’re able. I’ve seen through your eyes how you move in a real fight. You have potential, but proper training will take time.”

“We have time,” Nimue said, smiling. “We’ll waste no more time hiding.” As she had the day they met, Nimue grabbed Lancelot’s arm and forced it upward. Armed with his dagger this time, she swung it downward to prevent his sweeping kick as she stepped around him. She still failed to throw him off balance, and he whirled as soon as the dagger passed him, freeing his sword arm and pushing her toward the nearest wall with his free hand. Again, her footwork failed her; her momentum already carrying her toward the wall, his light push sent her flying in that direction. Lancelot leapt forward and caught her around the shoulders, protecting her from some of the impact while also moving close enough to pin her against the wall with his body.

“Rule number one,” he breathed in her ear, “never drop your weapon. Well done, but I’ve won.” Nimue’s clothing had shifted just enough to reveal the tip of one of her demon scars. Lancelot dipped his head down so his lips grazed the mark as he spoke. “Will you show me the embers in your skin?” He surprised himself with his own forwardness, but their casual sparring put him at ease, and he’d been fascinated by her scars since he’d first glimpsed them. For once, Nimue was eager to show them off in their entirety. Surrendering Lancelot’s dagger back to him, she loosened the ties of her tunic, pushing it off her shoulders so it fell around her feet. Drawing the shirt beneath it over her head, she held the thin garment against the front of her body while her mate got his first unobstructed view of her bare back.

Lancelot was silent for a long moment, gently lifting her walnut hair out of the way, draping it over her right shoulder. The scars were longer and broader than he’d imagined, extending downward from her left shoulder, curving slightly toward her right hip. “Five?” He murmured.

“Five,” Nimue confirmed.

Such a small child attacked by a creature with claws so large... the demon could have stepped on her and crushed her. Lancelot fought back a rush of shame; Father Carden had poisoned his mind against the fey, even referring to him, Lancelot, as demon-born, while Nimue was forced to fight and kill a demon the likes of which no Red Paladin had ever seen. Pushing those dark and morbid thoughts from his mind, noticing Nimue was shifting uncomfortably, he reached out to trace her scars with his fingertips as she had traced his. The faint red shimmer wasn’t as clear indoors as it was in sunlight, but urging Nimue to step back from the wall, he guided her into the brightest firelight and his breath caught. The almost black color of the scars sharply contrasted her fair skin, and the ember-like glow caused by thin, shining streaks of dark red... “Beautiful,” He whispered. “The thought of you in such pain cuts me to my core, but your battle wounds are beautiful.” He let his fingers wander, following the curve of the scars down to her hip before he brought them back up her side, moving forward at the waist until the shirt she held to her chest brushed the back of his hand. “You are so beautiful, Fey Queen.”

“Don’t use that title now,” Nimue said somewhat shakily, turning to face her mate, stepping out of the tunic pooled around her feet. “I’ve waited too long to call you Lancelot, and since you first spoke my given name, I’ve dreamt of little else.”

“Nimue,” Lancelot spoke softly, reverently, his gravely voice her undoing as his lips found hers again. She dropped the shirt she held, and his hand on her waist pulled her body against his, her bare breasts crushed against his bare chest while they each reached around to trace each other’s scars. Without making a conscious choice to do so, they stripped themselves of their remaining clothing and fell onto the bed, Nimue on top of Lancelot. Their joining was the embodiment of a bountiful harvest taking root in winter-hardened earth. He was her steady source of nourishment, and she was all that grew soft, plump, and beautiful. Nimue was the tempting apple, and that exquisite epiphany made Lancelot cast all his old beliefs aside. If this was damnation, he’d walk through Hell unharmed by the flame, and he would guard her for eternity. “I will call you whatever you wish,” he said as their dance came to completion, their faces turned upward as if to worship the sun, “so long as I can call you mine.”

“Lancelot,” Nimue whispered breathlessly. “My Lancelot,” she whispered again, kissing the markings on his cheeks. “Whatever the dawn brings, no matter what happens next...” Nimue pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. “I’m yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it for this one. Fire and Water was only ever meant to be about the ignition and culmination of a mate-trope Nimulot romance. NE: Bait will follow the canon story of season 1 more closely, fitting more believable encounters into a slow burn. Thanks for reading!


End file.
